#probably saw himself in lamb in that moment. and certainly some feelings on the fact that there is no one to stop lamb from doing such

[liskobot]

(unholy alliance spoilers)

tbh its not just the spotify wrapped that makes the 'narinder is actually a softie' bit a truth

its all the post ingame behaviour too

like the aforementioned bit of asking lamb if their day is going well

but also his whole questline of subtly/indirectly asking for/pondering on things that reminds him of his siblings (even after everything)

and then his pondering on the fragility of mortal life as his final quest, the little bit of character development where he actually properly addresses and thanks the lamb

his whole speech at the opening to purgatory

and shamura, sharing the fact that (supposedly) one thing that made narinder grow in strength so much is (how beloved he became) because of his work into resurrections and 'controlling life' much like death

[giorno-plays-piano]

Vicious

Part VI

Pairing: Steve x reader, Bucky x reader, Thor x reader, Loki x reader, Peter x reader

Warnings: yandere, obsession, stalking, possessiveness, theft, mention of blackmail, all characters are adults.

Words: 1567.

Summary: Transferring to Stark Academy that has only allowed to take in female students last semester, you realize you are just one of three young women among hundreds of students. Your things are constantly being stolen, and soon you begin fearing for your safety.

Part I

Part II

Part III

Part IV

Part V

________

You spent the rest of your evening like a somnambulist, barely able to concentrate on your projects before you went to bed, barely finishing half of the things you planned for today. Even the change of locks didn't make you as happy as you thought it would. It felt like something between a dream and a nightmare.

Lying in the dark, you stared at the ceiling, thinking of what happened just a couple of hours ago. Why did he do it? Was it just out of habit and didn’t mean anything? Naturally, with his appearance and easy-going attitude, he probably dated many girls and didn’t think much before kissing someone he liked.

Remembering the way he talked to you in the morning, you thought he must have pretended to be shy around you. Thor certainly wasn’t sheepish.

Was it all a sham? Was Loki right about all of them, playing their roles to get close to you? You couldn’t forget the way Thor looked the moment he told you about being smart. It was like something switched inside him, and for a second you saw the real Thor who was far from being your simple, good-natured athlete.

Why did you keep thinking about that stupid kiss even after seeing the man could be dangerous?

Aroused and angry, you tossed and turned until you fell asleep.

____________

Waking up was especially tough, despite the fact you didn't really do much yesterday, meaning you were going to spend your weekend studying. Shoot, and that's when you planned to visit that new chocolate boutique in the city. Maybe you could still make it if you spent more time studying today?

But then again, going to the city alone might be a bad idea. Even if the guys who stole your things were beaten, it didn't mean it had always been the same people following you. The school was full of weirdos, in the end. What if somebody went after you? Steve would definitely say you had to bring one of your guards with you.

Damn. It was better staying in the dorm then.

"Good morning! Are you ready?" Peter's voice broke through the silence, and you flinched, hurriedly applying some lipstick because you didn't have enough time to put your makeup properly.

Well, at least you were fully dressed.

"Just give me a second!" Picking up your bag, you put your shoes on and opened the door, looking at a young guy who's face was lit up like a Christmas tree. "Hi!"

He definitely liked what he saw, and you felt your cheeks growing hot from embarrassment. From the very start of the semester Peter acted very sweet around you, and you thought you could be friends with him. He wouldn't do something as ugly as blackmailing, would he? Thor said it too. Clearly, Steve was exaggerating.

"Did you sleep well? I've heard you changed your lock, so now it'll be better."

"Ugh, I hope so. But I still sleep with my dresser blocking the door." Sighing, started walking, afraid to look in the faces of other students, hurrying off to school.

They must have been disgusted, watching you being friendly with one guy after being all lovey-dovey with the other just yesterday. Although you didn't see anyone in particular, you were sure somebody saw Thor kissing you. And now you were walking the corridors with Peter.

"By the way, what's your Insta?"

What? Your Instagram? Whatever for? Although you had no idea why he needed it, you let him add you, by the time leaving the dorm and walking towards the main building.

Suddenly, Peter got pretty close, his arm on your waist as he lifted up his phone and hummed, "Look here and smile!"

Before you realized what he was doing, the boy kissed your temple, and you heard the sound of a photo being taken by his front-facing camera. What the Hell?!

"Peter!" Pissed at him, you quickly break free and stepped back, but he was already looking at his phone, editing the photo and posting it almost immediately.

You heard your phone buzz when he marked you on the photo.

"That's a good one. You look very cute here."

"What are you doing?!"

"Making a proof we're dating, of course?"

You were taken aback by the sincerity in his voice, and Peter smiled from ear to ear like an excited teenager, showing you the picture: it wasn't that bad, and you looked as if you were slightly embarrassed by Peter's closeness. Oh, of course. He had to convince his friends he was dating you, but he didn't kiss you on the lips that could make other people too suspicious. Instead, friends of Barnes or, say, Thor, would still think it was all for show, and it was their friend who dated you for real.

Shit, Steve's plan was incredibly complicated, and you didn't like it at all.

"Oh, alright." You mumbled, lowering your eyes to the ground, and Peter laughed.

"We'll make a TikTok dance later. If you wanna make people talk, just use your social media." He winked at you and put the phone in the pocket of his pants, resuming walking, and you moved along, your face still hot.

God, what did these guys got you into? You felt like you were lost in the middle of a play, not even having a script to read what was your role in all this.

Before you parted your ways, going to a different classrooms, Peter talked about videogames, the upcoming Resident Evil - apparently, his favorite franchise - and some Dota tournament, but you didn't know much about it, and Peter offered to show you his favorite games "because you can't spend all your time studying!"

He was as careless and sweet as always, but you couldn't get Steve's words out of your mind. Damn, if only you could know for sure that Peter didn't blackmail anyone. Who could you talk to about it? Obviously, not Peter himself, but every time he spoke you had that nagging feeling you needed to talk to him. You barely kept your mouth shut before he went to a different room.

Ugh, why didn't you transfer anywhere else when you still had a chance? Obviously, now you could only drop out of school, and it definitely wasn't something you were going to do.

Luckily, the next couple of hours you were busy with your classes, trying your best to prepare for the upcoming exams. The academy held high standards, and even though you were a good student, it still took lots of efforts to keep up the good work. How Thor even managed to get enrolled, judging by the fact he hated studying and often skipped classes?

Ah yes, he mentioned something about getting a scholarship from the academy for his success in the sport.

By the lunch time you were drained, listening to Peter chatting with an absent-mindedly epxression on your face. Funny enough, Peter's grades were better than yours, even though he spent much less time studying. What, was he some genius like Loki? You felt a little envy.

"I gotta go take my tracksuit, I have PE next," the boy said, and you nodded, throwing away the leftovers of your lunch.

As you stood close while he grabbed his sportclothes, you heard two guys talking behind the lockers to your right.

"Have you seen her today? She's with Parker!"

You tensed immediately. Of course, they were talking about you.

"Yeah, so what?"

"She was with Thor yesterday!"

Watching you froze on the spot, Peter stilled too, listening carefully. Oh shit, you hoped no one cared about who you went with - why should they, in the end - but, apparently, you were drawing too much attention simply because you were a girl among hundreds of male students.

"So what?" The other guy asked impatiently, growing tired of this conversation.

"Are you stupid? She's going out with them! I bet she's looking for a guy." The first student said with excitement, and you cringed. No, you weren't going out with anyone, you wanted to stop the weirdos from following you and steeling your things. Was it too much to ask?

"Yeah, who cares?"

"We have three fucking girls in the whole school, and you don't care if one of them could be going out with you? Besides, this one's pretty. I'd fuck her!"

You felt like you were going to puke any moment. Why on Earth did you decide to transfer to an all-boys school? It was like the whole school were a men’s room filled with stupid-ass guys, and you were locked inside, forced to listen them talk junk.

"You'd fuck a sheep, weirdo. Go get yourself a girlfriend if you can’t stop thinking with your dick.”

Laughing, the guy left, and his friend followed him, shouting something stupid while you breathed out a sigh of relief. Of course, you knew there would be some talk, but you didn’t expect it to be so... gross. Were you really gonna spend the two remaining years here?

Watching you getting frustrated, Peter gently touched you by the arm and said softly, “Don’t worry. They won’t talk rubbish about you.”

“What do you mean?” Suddenly thinking of Steve’s words, you blurted out exactly what you were thinking of the whole day, “Are you going to blackmail them with something?”

“I... what?”

Part VII

__________

Tags: @finleyjayne @alexakeyloveloki   ​@helenaeisenhower @villanellevi @hurricanerin ​@inlovewiththefictionalcharacters @chris-evans-indian-fanfic @navegandoaciegas @rosalynshields @brattycherub @sllooney @angrythingstarlight @lookiamtrying @buckysbunny @stargazingfangirl18 @dillybuggg @literate-lamb @cosicas-cuquis @sarge-barnes-sir @buckybarnesplumwhore @jaysayey @megzdoodle @gotnofucks @lux-ravenwolf @ximebebx @jeremyrennerfanxxxx123 @sourpatchspinster @biiskuitx @stupendouslovegardener @iheartsebandchris @lovelydarkdaydream @soleil-dor @illyrianprincess @vampirestrawberries @goodgodimaweirdperson @frontmanash @freya-heya @yandematic @mariatietacapitu @d3monslust @maybesandohnos @ibeatuptwinks @mangobangi

[rjhpandapaws]

(Not) What I Want in a Second Chance

Ch 1: The Devil is in the Details

//Tw: Emotional manipulation. Death, grieving, alcohol abuse, suicidal ideation; anti-android sentiments, and anti-android language. CyberLife is an unsettling mix of FB, Amazon and Google. Be prepared

Hank had his fair share of regrets, it came with the amount of time he had been on the force. His family fell apart. There were lives he could have saved if he had only been faster. The consequences that came with hitting a patch of ice; just to name a few. There were days he debated putting in for retirement, but he knew where that would lead. One more added to a growing statistic. Another retired detective that chose to suck on a bullet; and that was assuming anyone cared enough to come check on him. So he drank instead. On the days he woke up in time, he went to work. On the days he didn’t he woke up only to start drinking again. Another hopeless, tired man on the fast track to a whiskey filled grave. He wasn’t as bothered by that as he probably should have been. He wasn’t bothered by much anymore. If he could think clearly that meant he needed a drink. There was one thing that always bothered him though, and that was androids. He found them creepy over all, they had no reason to look that human. Then one had killed Cole; or rather, stood there and did nothing while he died. That had been when Hank had drawn the line. In that moment they had gone from something mildly off putting to something he actively despised.

That was why he liked places like Jimmy’s. It was one of the few places left that wasn’t overrun by androids, and the other patrons left him alone. Everyone was nursing a different sorrow so conversation wasn’t a priority. He could treat his grief with whiskey until he was face down against the bar and no one would judge him for it. Tonight was shaping up to be one of the rougher ones. He couldn’t drown his regrets no matter how much he drank. The thoughts refused to blur. It wasn’t Cole tonight. For a change, he was thinking about someone else he had lost. Connor Paldeki was one of his earlier partners, and his favorite even still. He had belonged to the Deerborn Police Department originally and they had met on a particularly bad homicide case. They worked well enough that they were paired for joint cases pretty often after that. So when Connor was transferred to Detroit it only seemed natural that they were made partners since they had previous work history. Even as a rookie Connor had been bright. He could pick a scene a part and put it back together with ease and accuracy that was almost scary. Hank had been certain that he was on the fast track to making rank. Then the Red Ice bust had happened and Connor’s glowing career came to a sudden and bloody end. Hank had wound up promoted, but it felt hollow somehow. Like it was a consolation of sorts.

He felt like it was written in Connor’s blood. Hank had been told that he hadn’t felt it, that he had been dead before he hit the ground. They hadn’t seen him though with the fear of death frozen on his face. None of the them had the haloing pool of blood seared into their memory. For all the consolation they tried to give him, they hadn’t been so powerless as to see the life leave the eyes of a dear friend. The papers had praised the whole raiding group as heroes, painted the thing like it had been a success. In a way it had been; they’d gotten what they were after, but they had lost three officers in the process. Connor, and two officers he hadn’t known from the SWAT team that had accompanied them. No one talked about it, and Hank wanted to scream. He went through the motions; his mandatory grief counseling, being a pall bearer for Connor’s casket; and then he took some time off to try and process all of it. When he got back he took the small bonsai tree from Connor’s desk and pretended things were alright. He had to be. He was Lieutenant now, he couldn’t just break. He took care of the tree like Connor was coming back and would be upset to find it dead. He continued to try and love Ezra even though things were falling apart slowly, and he did his job. If he just kept going something would have to got right eventually. He hoped so anyway; because if it didn’t then what the fuck was all of this for. When Cole was born Hank had thought that was the start of his better days, and it had been for a while.

It was some level of pathetic that the most put together his life had ever seemed to be was when he was drinking himself into an early grave. He was pulled away from that train of thought by the feeling of being watched. That sense of awareness wasn’t something he could turn off even when he was drinking away what was left of his coherency. He looked up from the bar, and there was Connor, but something was off. Aside from the fact that he was dead, had been for over ten years at this point. He was here in the flesh, and Hank was almost willing to write it off as a drunken hallucination. There was just something about this Not-Connor that was bothering him. It took longer than it should of for his eyes to land on the blue LED at his temple. He’d had to tear his eyes away from the face that had haunted more than it’s fair share of his nightmares for the better part of a decade. CyberLife had accounted for every little detail. Down to that stupid curl that had always refused to stay put no matter how much gel Connor put in his hair. He could hazard a guess at how they had gotten that information. They had files on everyone it seemed, whether or not someone owned an android didn’t seem to matter. Or, since it had been over a decade they could have pulled it through FOI, but Hank sincerely doubted that.

“Lieutenant Anderson?” He - It asked. Hank couldn’t place it, but there was something wrong about the voice. It was almost exactly Connor’s, but there was something wrong about it. He was tempted not to respond, but he had the feeling this Not - Connor would wait there all night even if Hank ignored it. “Yeah,” He huffed, “What do you want?” “My name is Connor.” It started, and Hank wanted to scream, this was not his Connor. Not the right one, “I am the android sent by CyberLife. There has been a homicide and I was told to find you; which I was lucky enough to do after the fifth bar.” “Fuck off.” Hank groused. “My instructions were -” It started, but Hank cut it off. “I’ll show you where you can stick your instructions.” He muttered. That seemed to give it pause. Where is Connor would have laughed and made a remark of his own, this convincing fake just looked pathetically confused. Hank almost pitied the thing, but it wore the face of a dead friend and that wasn’t something he could forgive. “What if I buy you a drink?” It pressed, “Would you come with me then?” Hank gave an annoyed sigh of defeat and relented. The sooner he got this over with, the less time he would have to spend facing this walking lie, “Fine.”

In the most put upon way the thing that was not Connor flagged for another whiskey and even paid for it. As annoyed as he was, Hank had to admit he was almost impressed. The real Connor would have never set foot in a bar unless it was for a case. It made it easier to distance one from the other. He nursed his new whiskey for longer than was strictly necessary. If they were going to do this, they were going to do it his way. He drove to the scene with his music loud enough that talking would be a pain in the ass, and the thing had still tried to make conversation. Hank would have turned into oncoming traffic if he was certain this thing wouldn’t have tried to stop him. It certainly seemed to have a purpose other than torturing him. “Stay in the car.” He said firmly when they arrived at the scene. “Got it.” It said in a way not too unlike the actual Connor and it made Hank’s stomach twist in disgust. It didn’t actually stay in the car of course, and Hank hadn’t really expected it to. It had it’s orders after all, and so did Hank unfortunately.

Hank took a bitter sort of satisfaction in Ben’s obvious discomfort when he saw it. Whatever comment he had been about to make died and he let them by with a tense nod. Every person on scene that had known the real Connor looked distinctly troubled by the fake; and that had been before it had licked any evidence. Hank passively observed the scene, he wanted to see what this thing was made of.  Was his computer brain anything like how the real Connor’s had been? Better? As much as he hated the thing, he was curious how it would stack up against the real thing. The other android self destructed in the end, even with Not-Connor’s unsettling attempt at compassion. Or perhaps because of it. It was something Hank hoped he would never have to see again. By the time they were done for the night, Hank had one question that was weighing on him. “Why do you look this way?” He asked as he gathered his things. “To ensure your cooperation.” Came the flat reply. That was when Hank realized what was wrong; the voice held no emotion to it. The next thing it said was what chilled Hank to the bone, “They figured you wouldn’t want to the cause of your partner’s death for a second time, and it was too soon to use the image of your son.”

Hank wasn’t sure what hurt him more; the blatant manipulation, or that fact that if seeing his dead friend again didn’t hurt him enough CyberLife wouldn’t be above using his son against him. When he made it the parking lot he threw up in a near by trash been. He didn’t remember the drive home, but when he got to the house he made sure to feed Sumo before he grabbed the Black Lamb and his revolver. When darkness finally came for him he didn’t know if it was because he had drank himself into unconsciousness again, or if he had finally won at Russian Roulette. He just hoped he never came out of it. He couldn’t do this.

[be-ace-write-crime]

Lovely Bride - Second Wedding Night

You wake up after your night with Wamuu and return to your empty village, the last survivor of the Hamon tribe. You struggle with conflicting emotions, anger to the people that made you a sacrificial lamb, grief for the tribe that raised you and the people you grew up with. So much has happened in such a short time and nothing will ever be the same again.

Thankfully Esidisi is there to comfort you.

You and Wamuu made love all night and you suspect a decent portion of the morning as well, after the candles had burned out. He took care to clean the sweat, cum and oil off your skin, probably realizing how badly he had wrecked your body after the fact. He put your wreath aside and let you snuggle up in his bed with some clean pillows, and you fell asleep almost instantly.

The stress and your rendezvous with the first pillarman had thoroughly exhausted you. You woke up alone, a single candle left to light the room for you. It hadn’t been lit for long. Maybe an hour or two? Either way, the room had become stuffy, smelling of sex and burnt out candles, so even if you couldn’t get outside, you weren’t staying in this room.

You picked up your dress, your sandals, and combed your hair with a comb left on the table beside the one remaining light. You were about to leave the room when you thought to put your wreath back on, as your first husband clearly appreciated the look and symbolism of it. You also thought to bring a dagger that was on display as one of Wamuu’s trophies. You knew he wouldn’t mind you taking it and while you were neither scared your betrothed would eat you, nor did you have the hubris to assume you could take them in a fight if you had a dagger, being sent around the lair of vampires and vengeful gods unarmed had been making you nervous since yesterday. With the sheathed dagger tucked into the belt around your waist you venture into the hallway.

The candle light didn’t reach very far, but far enough you can see a faintly shifting silhouette in the shadows leading deeper into the catacombs. Very well, not like you wanted to go there and the squirmy shadows of what had to be vampires only helped to solidify that decision. You looked over your shoulder constantly as you made your way back outside. The hatch had been left open, though the early evening light made it too dangerous for the pillarmen or the vampires to be out.

Every step into the light felt like a wave of relief. You blew out your candle and left it on the steps, almost running outside. It wasn’t until you felt the breeze blowing through the temple that you noticed the trails of tears on your face. You rarely cried, but indeed, you had much to cry about. Tears of relief, happiness and sadness alike.

The sun kissing your face felt heavenly and you could have probably stood there until the sunset, if a warm chuckle hadn’t pulled you out of your thoughts. You wiped your tears away and looked to see Esidisi at the bottom of the stairs, just barely visible in the shade.

“You look beautiful like that,” he said. “I look forward to the day I can embrace the sun by your side,” he added, casting a mournful glance at the shadows edge he couldn’t cross. It seemed so strange that someone as powerful as him was unable to touch you simply because you were standing in the sunlight.

“I wish I could share it with you,” you said, without thinking.

“You do?” he asked, looking up at you again. He seemed surprised.

“I wouldn’t deny anyone the sun… It would be cruel…” you said, shyly running a hand through your hair as he graced you with a warm smile.

“Such a kind heart after all you’ve endured,” he said. “Your village is still there, though you will find it deserted. I assume that’s where you were headed.”

“I just wanted some fresh air, but… now that you mention it, I would like to go there,” you agreed.

“Go ahead. I will catch up to you once the sun has set,” Esidisi said, leaning against the wall and waiting out the daytime.

You nodded and went ahead as we’d told you to do. From what you’d gathered he was the second in command, higher than Wamuu in their hierarchy, but below Kars. He was the one to second your plea for your sister and nieces to be spared. You would have to ask him about them later.

The way down to your village was eerily quiet. Normally you’d hear some noise, see the lights from cooking fires and candles, but the place was abandoned as you’d been warned it would be. The gods had come down from the mountain and wiped out all the people that once resided here, leaving the empty shell of your birthplace behind. In the village square there was a table laid out for a banquet, big enough for the whole village.

Wild animals and some escaped livestock had made their own feast of it in the absence of the humans during the day, but everything looked as if your people just vanished into thin air. Cups and cutlery strewn about, food and wine on the tables, homes untouched. No time to pack up and flee, no time to get the weapons and fight, just a meal, over as soon as it began.

You had been crying since you first stepped outside, but seeing with your own two eyes how the people you called your tribe would be gone forever made you sob hysterically. The ones that had raised you, loved you, and then sent you off to die had all been killed, leaving you alone to mourn them.

“C-Celebrating, were you?!” you spat angrily at the empty table. Wild dogs and other pests had dragged the meat away, while half eaten and picked at fruit, vegetables and pastries were being consumed by flies. A few birds scattered as you approached and dragged a metal tray off the table, leaving it to clatter against the cobblestones of the square. The plates were next, smashed at your feet or hurled like disks to burst into shards of earthenware against the walls of empty homes.

One pitcher full of wine was miraculously untouched on the table, at least until you found it. Booze would either calm you down or be a perfect fuel to your fire. You chugged half the damn vase to quench your thirst either way.

“Was it worth it?! Were all of us you sent to die worth it, you bastards?!” you demanded, climbing on the table and hurling the serving blows around, kicking everything off that was in your way.

“How many idiots does one village need?!” you spat at the empty head chair, picking up the plate and yeeting it with a perfect spin in the direction you came from. It would have gone far if your husband hadn’t caught up to you by then, batting at the dish reflexively, only to have it shatter in his face like shrapnel.

You tried to compose yourself quickly. Surely throwing a plate at his face would warrant killing you, he’d killed for less, you were throwing a tantrum in the evidence of that fact, but you knew he wasn’t going to. For one not to go against Kars, but also because the look on his face was far from the righteous fury that should have been there.

You were standing on a table, leftover food and sauce on the ends of your dress and up to your ankles, ugly crying like a fussy child, but Esidisi merely brushed the stone splinters from his hair and handed you the big carving knife you had somehow stepped over.

“Don’t stop on my account, dear (Y/N). In fact, if I can assist you in any way, do not hesitate to tell me,” he said, smiling calmly.

“I could stab you with this, you know?” you asked, sniffling loudly.

“That dagger would be better for stabbing, but you could,” he agreed, looking up at you. “If it would make you feel better, I would let you. I remember needing to vent for weeks after my own tribe was wiped out. How lord Kars put up with me during that time is beyond me, but I am infinitely grateful he did,” he explained, leaving himself open for an attack.

You contemplated doing it for several long moments, even raising the knife over your head, but ultimately deciding against it. You weren’t scared he would retaliate or punish you, but in the end you saw no point in harming the one person showing you kindness in that moment. You tossed the knife away and kicked some more tableware around like an angry cat.

“‘S no point… just no point in… a-anything I do, is there? W-What am I gonna do now? What need do you have for a human? Just gonna live underground for a… a month and then die like everyone here!!!” you sobbed, hiding your face, which must have been a huge mess by then. Right now he certainly wasn’t sympathising with you because of your good looks.

“You will live, you will grow stronger and wiser and live out the full extent of your life. You alone will carry the legacy of your people. You will be our agent in achieving perfection and when we do we shall forever embrace the light of day beside you,” he answered, holding you against his chest and stroking your back softly.

If you muttered something along the lines of ‘lying bastard’ he kindly ignored it and let you finish crying.

“You were right, you know. The best men and women your village had to offer were the first to die. I believe after your sister and her daughters left, there was hardly any goodness left among them. They took two old horses and a small cart and were practically chased out under threat of being stoned to death. I handed them the box lord Kars said to give them after they had departed, fearing it might be stolen from them. Don’t tell, but I informed them you were alive and what you had done. Your sister cried, as she had done all evening, then brandished a spear at me and said for me to treat you better than your people had treated you,” he said, letting you sob into his shoulder until you ran out of steam. You were probably dehydrated too and seriously hungry.

“Every person worth their salt here seems to think the world of you. Your sister risking her life to threaten me, the tribe’s warriors who died to protect you, lord Kars who saw your shine even in your darkest hour.”

“Everyone else here seemed to think I was fairly expendable,” you huffed bitterly.

“They seemed to think sacrificing you would save all of their lives. They were slaughtered for treating you so cruelly, beloved, but they knew you were the greatest treasure they had to offer,” he corrected, picking you and setting you down now that you had recovered.

Crying like that really did make you feel better. You were never allowed a tantrum of such epic proportions before, just shy of stabbing your husband, while he supported you through every second of it.

“Speaking of treasure,” he said, a sly smile on his face. “This is a small village, but it seems wealthy enough. There is no one left to care for its worldly possessions now,” he said, quirking a brow to emphasize his mischievous intentions. Well, mischief by the standards of a wrathful, mass murdering god. If two days ago someone had told you you’d essentially be pillaging your own home, stealing from the dead, you’d have thought they were crazy.

“You’re not… wrong…” you agreed. His smile was contagious, and you found yourself going along with his idea.

The full moon was high in the sky and the tables and chairs in the square had been repurposed to light a bonfire with his magic. You knew how and where money was hidden and Esidisi caught on to the pattern quickly.

“Go fetch your own treasures, darling. Vampires could do this,” he said, whistling to summon a few and instructing them on how to search.

You could name a few things you wanted, but never dared to ask for. Now you were the sole heir to the hamon tribe and your husband ordered you to fetch whatever treasure you desired, so who were you to disobey?

As such you met him later in the town square, decked out in enough jewelry to sink your body to the bottom of a river, a silk dress in a vibrant wine red color and a stola to match, while your palla, a scarf reserved for upperclass women of Rome, was now a makeshift bag for numerous scrolls you had stolen, detailing the history and craft of your people. Those were all going with you and you’d guard them with your life.

You were still bitter about what your people had done to you. You might always carry some resentment for the rest of your life, but the warriors of your tribe had given their lives to save those selfish creatures and you wouldn’t allow them and their sacrifice to be dismissed by history just because the people they fought to protect were ungrateful bastards.

Your haul made for an odd little collection of treasure. You had also taken to wearing the shiny, gold anklets you found. These were typically reserved for the… courtesans of your village. The women who kept themselves standing by laying on their backs. They were frowned upon by common folk, but were considered desirable nonetheless. There was no one left now to judge you for your dress being too short or the anklets you wore with your wreath and your dagger.

You were the last living member of the Hamon tribe and a bride to gods. Dressed in all gold, or wearing nothing at all would make you no less of a queen.

“Master Esidisi?” you greeted him upon finding him again. He quickly smiled when he saw you, but you could tell something had happened.

“You look beautiful by the light of the fire as you do in the daylight, my dear,” he said, standing up and coming to welcome you.

You noticed at least one of the vampires had… well it had died, but you couldn’t phantom what had happened to it. It looked like it had blown up and then melted. “Don’t worry about that thing. It decided to berate me when it couldn’t find what I had ordered it to search for.”

“What was it supposed to search for?” you asked. It probably wasn’t anything you’d picked up. The scrolls had all been in plain sight and you didn’t need to search hard for fine clothes and jewelry.

“The chief of your village had come into possession of a precious red stone, called the Aja. I ordered the vampires to search his home for it, but they found nothing,” he explained.

“Tsk, as if that cowardly bastard would hide anything you might look for in his own house,” you muttered, jumping when you realized what you had just done. Perhaps you drank a bit too much wine earlier. “Don’t kill me, I just know what a prick he used to be!”

“I wouldn’t kill you for such an infraction, (Y/N). You are my bride and equal. This vermin didn’t know his place,” he assured you. “Where would he hide the Aja if not in his home?”

“I can’t say for sure…” you started. Giving the wrong answer seemed more dangerous than not knowing, but you could hazard a guess in this case. “I imagine he’d hide it where he hid everything he really cared about. His mistress, his bastard children and your stone,” you said, pointing to the little home uphill. It was near the treeline and his sons and mistress were among the first to be devoured by vampires as a result. The elderly chief hadn’t been one of your favorite people to begin with, but losing his sons and the woman he loved made him worse.

You looked around the home you knew well, noticing the loose stones around the fireplace in the kitchen where no one would think anything was hidden.

“I have been by this house before,” Esidisi said.

“I think I found something,” you said, prying the stone loose stones out.

“Your sister was here, gathering your things,” he continued, insisting.\

“It’s stuck, could you please help?” you asked, trying to ignore him.

“You were the chief’s illegitimate daughter, is that right?” he asked, just as the stone came loose and you flopped backwards onto your old kitchen floor, gold and silver accessories jingling as you went.

“Ow…” you huffed, looking up at your husband from where you lay. “I spent enough time crying over that already. I have better things to waste tears on now,” you answered with a long sigh, slowly sitting back up.

There was a box in a little hollowed out space you uncovered. “He loved my mother and my brothers, but not me. I think he felt I should have died before any of them. I figure that was his real reason for sending me as a sacrifice. My sister was in the same boat as me, but she found herself a good husband.”

“Was he killed by the vampires, or one of us?” Esidisi asked, sounding genuinely apologetic.

“Typhoid, almost a year ago. My nieces lived with me during that time. Gods forbid they might have caught it too. I loved them so much… My mother still thought herself my father’s true love, ignoring how she was led on and made to live in poverty, treated like an adultering whore for being with a married man. My brothers were young, though they got it in their heads just like our mother that they would be in charge someday. Our father loved them, though. Had them trained to be warriors since they were children. In the end they didn’t wake up in time to scream, let alone fight… It’s been a few weeks since then...” you explained, crying again, but less frenzied than before. All that wine was definitely keeping you from throwing another tantrum, if only because you’d fall over if you tried.

“My sincerest condolences for your loss and you have my respect for what you did to save your sister and nieces,” your husband whispered. “You will never be disrespected like that, my sweet. We shall treat you as a goddess, as you rightfully deserve to be,” he promised.

You could tell he was serious, despite his ruthlessness in battle. His condolences were sincere, and you were grateful he’d been the one to send your sister on her way.

“You don’t mind that I’m human? Whatever happened to the women of your kind?” you asked.

“Our tribe existed until some eight thousand years ago. I was Lord Kars’ right hand in his endeavor to elevate our immortal kind through the stone masks, but they rejected his views. Kars decided if they wanted to spend eternity cowering underground instead of striving for more, then they might as well be dead,” Esidisi explained. “When he gave the order, I did not hesitate. The only ones spared were Wamuu and Santana, who were only infants at the time. Regardless, I say he chose his companions well. Yourself included,” he said, kissing your forehead.

By now your eyes had to be wide as saucers and you were regretting not bringing more wine, which might have made that story a little easier to unpack.

“I can’t say for sure whether you made the right choices, but wiping out all women of your immortal kind and then choosing me definitely sounds like a decision made by someone stabbed in the head with several stone spikes,” you said, making him laugh again.

“My beautiful (Y/N), what matters is that lord Kars sees the potential of a goddess in you and more than any creature that has ever walked this earth he has been a master of realizing such potential,” your husband assured you, taking the box you had almost forgotten about and flipping it open, revealing the brilliant red stone inside. “And you have just brought us one step closer with the gift you procured.”

It was explained on the way back up the mountain that their aim was to retrieve this stone to complete the stone mask lord Kars had created with the intention of allowing them to endure sunlight. It answered several questions you had and raised a million more, but your first order of business would be to present the stone to your husband and master.

“Lord Kars, we have returned!” Esidisi announced when you entered the temple. Kars was seated on his throne, his expression unreadable. He had let down his hair from under the tight wrap and it flowed down his back in elegant black waves, as dark and infinite as the night sky.

“Did you find it, Esidisi?” he asked, his eagerness betraying his stoic facade.

“I did not,” he said. Kars’ grip on his armrest cracked the solid marble and his red eyes shone furiously in the firelight. You flinched, wanting to smack your husband for teasing like this, but you were too nervous to speak already. “Rest easy, my lord. Our beloved bride did find it,” he said, ushering you forward.

You kneeled at his feet and humbly presented the stone. Kars pulled you into his lap and smiled, a genuinely happy smile as he kissed your cheek.

“Anything in the world shall be yours, my beautiful sunshine, for it is the world you have given us tonight,” he said, kissing your lips before taking the stone to examine it more. You felt an overwhelming joy bubble up in your chest, overpowering the grief and spite that had been festering there.

Esidisi looked almost smug, smiling up at you in his master’s lap. Like he was proud of himself you were getting praised.

All until Kars took a closer look at the stone. His expression turned to an annoyed sneer, and he glared at you so sharply you just about fell off his lap.

“Is it a fake, master Kars?” Wamuu asked while Esidisi approached to help you up and assure you again that you wouldn’t be eaten.

“This stone is genuine, but it is a plain Aja, far too small to serve its purpose,” Kars answered, shutting the box with a loud clack that made you flinch. “This is what we exhausted so much energy on…” he muttered, rubbing his forehead like he was fighting off a headache.

“The night is young, lord Kars. We can renew our search for the super Aja right now if you wish?” Esidisi offered.

Kars looked at Esidisi, then down to you, his expression softening slightly.

“No, that won’t be necessary, Esidisi. In fact, I might have some use for this stone after all. You can spend the night with our bride, seeing as how you’ve dressed her for the occasion,” your master declared, his eyes roaming over your figure, taking obvious note of your ankles. He stood up and grabbed the marble armrest he’d cracked, his muscles bulging as he ripped a slab of marble clean off. He picked up the stone and then plucked your wreath from your head and turned to head back into the catacombs.

“A shame. I thought the wreath matched your anklets rather well,” Esidisi said playfully, running his fingers through your hair. You blushed, but leaned into his touch regardless.

“I put those on cause they’re pretty. Not as an invitation… Kars is scary when he’s mad. What do I do?” you asked, feeling like you might cry again. You’d done your best, and you had no idea how big the stone needed to be! It wasn’t your fault!

“He isn’t mad at you,” Wamuu assured you. “I will head out with the vampires to continue our search. We know that the red stone of Aja traveled the silk road from Asia to Rome. We’ll just have to find it.”

“He knows not to blame you for this. Lord Kars is more sensible than that. He’s frustrated, because our fight with the hamon tribe took a great deal of energy and while consuming the remaining villagers replenished some of it, we have little time before even that runs dry,” Esidisi explained, picking you up and kissing your forehead.

“What happens when it does?” you asked, the pillarmen exchanging a worried glance.

“Either we must consume what might well be an army of humans, or we must go to sleep and hopefully recover,” Esidisi explained.

“What? I-I wouldn’t argue with you consuming humans as you need, but what would be wrong with sleeping?” you asked. You hadn’t caught any of them sleeping, but you assumed they could, just like any other creature.

“When we sleep, we turn to stone and it could well be a thousand years or more before we awaken. You would not be there to greet us when we awaken,” Wamuu explained, looking down at the ground.

“How much time do you have left?” you asked, once again feeling the ring in your chest weigh heavy on your heart, but not because you were excited this time.

“About as much time as is left on your engagement ring, beloved,” Esidisi said.

Wamuu took all vampires with him, scattering them in every direction to search for information on the red stone, leaving Esidisi himself to fetch something you could actually eat while you waited in his room.

“You shouldn’t have,” you said, bashfully accepting the basket of goods he returned with, although the sight of food had your stomach painfully clenching to remind you of just how hungry you were. On your wedding day you had refused to eat, scared senseless and struggling against everything being offered to you. After your evening with Wamuu you had spent almost the entire day asleep, meaning you were going on two days without food at this point. No wonder that wine earlier got you drunk so quickly.

“I wouldn’t make you descend and climb a mountain twice on an empty stomach. It was foolish of me to have let you return without eating in the first place,” Esidisi responded, smiling as you started to dig in. The basket had fruit and bread and cured meats and cheese, and you hurriedly started popping grapes in your mouth.

“Thank you so much,” you said, holding your hand in front of your half full mouth. “Can you eat this?” you asked out of curiosity.

“I could pretend. I can appreciate the flavor, surely, but it wouldn’t sustain me,” he answered. “Your body produces its own life energy. Mine can only draw on the life energy of other living beings.”

You looked at your basket, at the cured meat inside. You thought of how many animals died every year to keep you fed. You wouldn’t eat another human, but you’d come to realize the gods you were married to didn’t kill for their own amusement or even to defend themselves. Only to eat.

And while it may have felt like cruelty, humans were simply not used to being prey. Not used to being the wary herd, stalked by ferocious predators, and knowing that their only hope was that someone either braver or weaker would be killed off first and still their hunger another night.

On the other hand, could you justify yourself standing by as an army worth of humans were turned into food? It was true he said army, but that was an awfully justifiable way of putting it. Army made it sound like a threat. Like it was kill or be killed. In reality even if they only picked off strong men, worthy of being soldiers, that would just leave an army worth of widows and children defenseless and possibly starving.

Would they even give you the antidote? You thought you’d grown closer with Wamuu and now Esidisi and Kars had chosen you himself, but you still wore the poison ring around your heart. If they were going to sleep, they wouldn’t have a reason to keep you alive either. Why would they allow their bride to run off on her own if she was going to die before they woke up again? Maybe that was the point all along. To hold the ring’s curse over your head so you wouldn't run away until they didn’t need your little mortal self anymore.

“You’re worrying about something silly,” Esidisi said, cutting through your line of thought as if he’d been reading your mind. “You have a very expressive face,” he explained.

“It’s not silly,” was the first thing out of your mouth before you thought to deny it. You probably just sounded immature. “I guess to a god being worried about dying would sound like some silly human concern…”

“You won’t die, beloved. We won’t allow it,” Esidisi answered simply.

“What about the wedding ring?” you asked, putting a hand over your heart. your husband nodded, understanding.

“You’re worried we won’t save you if we don’t find the stone in time to escape our thousand year sleep?” he asked. You nodded, putting the basket away on a side table.

Esidisi’s bedroom was larger than Wamuu’s and so was the bed you were seated on. The silk covers and furs from exotic animals in the candle light looked and felt like some kind of dream. It didn’t help the part of your brain that was whispering none of this was meant for you and like a dream it would come to an end long before you wanted it to.

“We’ll do everything we can to secure the stone first. If that fails, we can buy ourselves more time as needed,” he said, taking your hands in his. “It pains me to think you’ll live a mortal life at all. I realize by comparison it is selfish, but I wouldn’t want to wake up in a world without you in it…” he sighed, thumbs stroking over the many rings on your fingers. He didn’t suggest making you a vampire, which you were grateful for. The thought of spending centuries in the dark consuming humans while waiting for them to return made you sick to your stomach.

“I’m sorry…” you whispered. “It’s just so hard to believe when my own people didn’t want me alive… You barely know me…”

“I know enough to have fallen for you and everything I have come to learn has made me love you more,” he responded.

“I-I… Esidisi…” you whined, wanting to bury your face in your hands, but he wouldn’t let go. Your face was red. Had it been so hot in his room the whole time? Every other underground room had been so cool.

“I will have you know the extent of my adoration, my beautiful dancing flame,” he said. “If Kars won’t see reason, I will make him.”

Somehow knowing that he would disagree with Kars for your sake was a greater declaration of love than any words or gifts and you leaned in to kiss his lips.

“I love you too… I don’t want to cry anymore, please,” you said softly, burying your fingers in his soft, white hair.

“But you cried so beautifully for Wamuu last night,” he whispered. You whined and buried your face in his neck.

“You were listening?!” you asked. You thought Esidisi had been out that night.

“How could I not have heard you screaming like that? You sounded so eager. I have lived thousands of years and yet this evening has tested my patience more than centuries spent looking for the stone. Now I finally get you all to myself~” he purred, reaching over to the nightstand and pinching the candle wick between his fingers to snuff out its flame. You heard the soft sizzle of his flesh burning as he hadn’t wet his fingers to do it, but he didn’t even seem to notice. Every light that died let the shadows of the room creep closer, but you weren’t scared or even worried.

In the dark you could still sense him moving while he was so close. The soft, delicate silks of your new clothes slipped off easily and you were about to start on your jewelry, but your master really had run out of patience.

“Keep them on. You look beautiful,” he praised, pulling you in for another heated kiss. You wished you could take some of his clothes, but you had already noticed those were stitched into his skin. You did not expect him to remove his sewn on chest plate just so you could kiss and nuzzle his chest more freely, which was why the loud sound of stitches snapping surprised you.

“Doesn’t that hurt?” you asked finally.

“I hardly feel any pain at all and my body heals quickly. I rather enjoy the thrill when I do feel it. It’s exhilarating,” he explained. You were about to reach out and touch his chest when something hot and slim coiled around your wrists and pulled them back above your head. You couldn’t see what it was and the sharp tug made you help, but you knew it was just your husband, even if you couldn’t quite tell what he’d done.

“I will show you pain if you don’t stop teasing me,” you huffed, making him laugh.

“You are too adorable, trying to threaten me, my little flame,” he said through his laughing, something hot and wet dripping from the coils around your wrists, making you shiver. His hands around your waist moved and still your hands were pinned, immobile, which was frustrating, because not only could you not see your lover without his painful looking armor, you couldn’t touch him either. His fingertips felt hot, as if by remnant of the flames he extinguished between them, but by now you knew better. That heat was all his and glowed fiercely from within and you vaguely suspected he held it back some, just to touch you without hurting you when he explored your naked skin.

There was something sensual about being dressed in nothing but your jewelry before him. The bracelets entwined with the warm twine that held your arms in place. The thin strands of twinkling gold, laden with gems around your neck, resting lightly against the top of your bare breasts. The anklets you still wore, a coquettish little accessory that would have branded you a shameless whore to the humans you knew. Still your husband regarded you as a far greater treasure, stroking your thighs and kissing your neck as if he were mapping out every inch of you with his touch, even though you knew he could see you in the complete darkness.

“Please, Esidisi…” you murmured, wanting to feel his heat deep inside your core. You could already tell this would be nothing like with Wamuu. He’d been all chivalry, slowly testing the waters, infinitely patient until you gave him the all clear to have his way with you.

Esidisi was more in control, using that to his advantage to tease you mercilessly. He was taking things slow to savour you, not because he was holding anything back. His demeanor exuded a confidence and experience that made you feel safe, even if his slow pace had you craving more already.

“Please what, my darling?” he asked, pushing you down against the bed and you could feel the mattress dip where he kneeled over your small, exposed form. In the pitch black darkness you couldn’t see him right in front of you, but you felt the warmth radiating off him like a flame still. “Would you rather I take you like a beast in heat, little one? So eagerly crying for more~”

Heat was a very apt description of your current desire, in every sense of the word and he knew it. Threats and orders would make him laugh and requests would be easily overruled, but Esidisi never once denied you when you begged.

“Please, my master, my lord, my king! I need you to touch me. Make me yours. Burn me up! I need you!” you pleaded, rubbing your thighs together, only to have them roughly pried apart.

“No wonder Wamuu lost control with you so easily. With such a charming spark you possess you should be careful what you wish for,” he warned, and you could feel his breath against your labia, already anticipating what would happen next.

Knowing what would happen and being prepared for just how good it would feel were still two different things and more of the hot tendrils wrapped themselves around your legs, keeping you open and exposed while your god and master indulged in the taste of you. He worked his tongue deliberately, aiming to please in a way that told he took just as much pleasure in the act himself.

“A-Ah, yes! Oh my god… please please please don’t stop!” you pleaded, losing yourself too quickly to even try holding back your orgasm. His thumb worked your clit in slow, deliberate circles, while his tongue dipped hungrily into your wet pussy, as if craving your taste.

You came screaming, arching off the bed as far as your bonds would allow, while Esidisi continued to work you through your climax with his gentle, loving touch.

“You’re incredible, my love. I am so thankful I get to have you all to myself tonight. I can already imagine the fights over who gets to have you in their bed, our most coveted treasure,” he whispered while you caught your breath.

“Hmm… Ah, but all else being equal… won’t I get a say in that?” you asked, panting to catch your breath. The bindings around your wrists loosened and moments later you could feel his fingers pushing into your sensitive opening.

“True, true, very true,” he agreed, as his warm, battle calloused fingers explored your most sensitive spots. His heat inside was making you tremble and you almost desperately wanted more of it, despite having cum once already. “I suppose I’d better give you a reason to choose me when the time comes,” he said, rubbing insistent circles at a spot that made you whimper with need.

With your hands now free, you reached blindly into the darkness, finding his immensely broad shoulders and muscular arms. You carded your fingers through the soft white curls of his hair, pushing the fabric of his headpiece off and feeling the sharp horns he kept concealed under it.

“I-If you want to give me a reason… P-Please fuck me… I can take it already, please~” you begged. You could just make out the way his breath hitched and the sharp intake of breath before the bindings around your legs dragged you hallway into your lover’s lap and you could feel the blunt head of his cock pressing against you to replace his fingers.

“I am going to ruin you…” he growled softly, gripping your hips and slamming in deep.

You arched your back and keened, the edge of pain eased by his warmth and the pleasure of having him inside.

“What a glorious little spark you are, sweet (Y/N). Let me have you like this forever. Let me shower you with affection so that you may always wear such a lovely expression,” he murmured, kissing your lips while his hips rocked steadily with yours, his pace intensifying until the bed under you shook. It was nowhere near the feral pounding you’d enjoyed from Wamuu the previous night, but it was enough to leave you reeling regardless.

You giggled briefly, shaking your head. “I-Imagine… If I made that face at lord Kars? No… just now… just you… Esidisi~...” you responded. He chuckled and lifted you further onto his lap, holding you close while he slowed to grinding deeper inside you than you would have thought possible. It felt so incredible your eyes fluttered shut and you slumped against his rock-hard chest, finally getting to rub your face on it, though your attention was firmly drawn elsewhere.

“I imagine he’ll be inclined to make you show that face for himself soon. He’ll be as enamored with it as I am, beloved,” he said, his heat all around and deep inside you. It felt so comforting and safe in his arms, even wrecked by wave after wave of pleasure. “Still, I will cherish this moment where you are mine and mine alone~”

You were going to cum again. The pleasure like this wasn’t as overwhelming as being pounded like before, but it was constant, inescapable and so intense you could only mewl softly in agreement and try not to drool.

“So small and sensitive. You are far too tempting not to tease,” he said, still rocking into you slow and deep, letting out a deep, guttural moan when he felt you quiver and tighten around his hard cock. He didn’t stop or slow down, keeping his pace and dragging your breathtaking orgasm on into what felt like minutes.

“Ah~ S-So much… t-too much! Esidisi… Too much~!!!” you whined, weak little fingers clutching at his shoulders, digging into his skin as you braced yourself against the tidal waves of climax.

“You can endure more than you think, little one. I will show you the true heights of pleasure,” he purred, the intensity of his movements ramping up and the intensity of your never ending peak with it.

You were spilling all over his lap, crying out nonsensically while Esidisi built back up to the bed rattling rhythm from before. You’d never imagined feeling pleasure like this, dancing on the razor’s edge of pain, but never crossing it. The last part of your brain that still had any sense left wondered what love making like this could be building towards, as you were already cumming, but you could feel something building regardless.

You dimly wondered if some sort of double orgasm was possible and the thought was funny to you.

You wanted to share it, but between gasping and panting for breath and the lust clouding your mind you couldn’t get a word out.

Then you felt Esidisi slamming in hard and deep, flooding you with more of his divine warmth to the point of overflowing, and you had the answer for what could possibly beat ecstacy like you had been feeling before.

The last thing crossing your mind was complete and utter satisfaction before you completely and utterly passed out.

[klein-archive]

Memories in feelings

8th June 2021

This will be my (Jane Milton’s) last blog post before handing over to the new Melanie Klein Trust archivist, Christine English. I know that Christine has already identified some very interesting archival material that she will be sharing on the blog - which I am certainly looking forward to reading.

So, to round off my always stimulating, fruitful time exploring the Klein archives (though I will continue to refer to them) here are some clinical notes I came across recently, which I hope will be thought-provoking.

Klein discusses what she calls ‘memories in feelings’ several times in the third and fourth volumes of her Writings. For example, an important footnote to page 180 of Envy and Gratitude reads:

All this [referring to early phantasies concerning the breast] is felt by the infant in much more primitive ways than language can express. When these pre-verbal emotions and phantasies are revived in the transference situation, they appear as ‘memories in feelings’, as I would call them, and are reconstructed and put into words with the help of the analyst. In the same way, words have to be used when we are reconstructing and describing other phenomena belonging to the early stages of development. In fact we cannot translate the language of the unconscious into consciousness without lending it words from our conscious realm (Klein 1957).

In archive file PP/KLE/D.11, I found a detailed and complicated example of a ‘memory in feeling’, together with Klein’s interpretations of and reflections on it, in the analysis of a man in his late forties, whom she calls ‘Mr X’.

In the second half of file D.11, Klein discusses the difficulties that the patient is having, in integrating feelings towards his parents with the analytic transference situation. The analyst is sometimes spared the complex and contradictory negative feelings felt towards the primary objects, while, at other times, the situation with the parents is idealised, and the analysis and analyst denigrated. The following material appears in the digitised collection as images 18, 20 and 22-28 (omitting some pages which are crossed out and do not appear to belong to the sequence):

---

I could give you many more instances of attitudes, which have all in common the attempt on the part of the patient to avoid a synthesis between the various aspects of figures and relations, which have come to focus on the analyst. The point here is that the synthesis, which the patient has not been able to establish sufficiently in the past is bound up in the various anxieties coming to the fore. The analyst is loved and hated, as other people in the patient’s life were earlier on, and the patient resorts to all sorts of defences and among them the process of splitting figures and situations, in order to avoid the relations that these various aspects represent, the various aspects of the mother and father. It is, therefore, our work to help him to experience again and again - and this is a slow process we know - the realisation, that he has only divided up, split his ego, his relations with people, and the people themselves, in the attempt to avoid conflict, anxiety and guilt. Our interpretations aim at synthesis, but the synthesis can only be achieved piecemeal, and again and again the patient has to be confronted with experiencing conflict and suffering, which he has tried to avoid in the past.

Re memories in feelings: (to George)

[George is a child Klein saw between the ages of 3 and 8, in the 1930s, who appears in two of the ‘restricted’ files B.39 and B.40]

This brings me to a point which applies to adults as well as to some extent to children. We know how important it is to revive in our patients[’] memories. We however also know that such memories can be extremely falsified. This is included in the concept of cover memories. So while it is beneficial to get as many memories as possible, it is in connection with emotions, desires, anxieties which partly led to these memories, and which these past experiences were connected with, that we have to understand any situation in the past as well as in the present. We should never rest content with just having past experiences as it were reconstructed in the analysis, because we must not treat them as it were as isolated events. Only if we are able to bring out the whole situation of feelings, anxieties, fitting into the development as a whole, we can feel that we have benefitted sufficiently from the revival of memories. Now there would probably be no difference of opinion on that point. I still think it is worthwhile mentioning, for there are stages of development of which we cannot get memories in the full sense of the word, expressed by words, and in the clear-cut way in which memories of a later stage may appear. And yet they are memories of feelings.

Refer back to Mary in this connection - reproducing the situation of the baby (lamb) with all the oral details attached to it [it is not clear to whom Klein is referring here]

A VERY EARLY MEMORY IN FEELING

Man Patient X (age: just under fifty) 8th February 1946

In identification with the little child who was teething and woke at night repeatedly crying, the father felt suddenly, having just woken from sleep, what an “awful thing was going on in the child”. He had a vision of something growing out of the soft mouth, flesh being contrasted here to something very hard like spikes which were somehow thrust on him (because by now he felt it happening to himself and not to the child) and being forced to push these spikes together. (this was shown by a gesture). And a terrible feeling how awful that must be. At this moment, when visualising the spikes coming together, he had a vision of these hard things outside him, and “death-head” was the next association to it. The feeling of grievance that he could not stop that happening, that this whole thing had been thrust on him, that something had made these spikes come out, and that he had no more control over these spikes because again something forced him to push these spikes together.

Now these feelings he found extremely difficult to put into words, while he was otherwise very vocal. It seemed as if they just could not be put into words. And he fully agreed when I suggested that this incapacity was due to the fact that such things may be felt but not thought of in words at a very early stage. The one stimulus for experiencing what quite obviously was a memory in feeling was the identification with the little daughter. Another is the transference situation at the moment.

In the preceding hour some guilt about leaving the responsibility all his life too much with other people, or rather a tendency towards that which was very much controlled, had come up. Facing that, a very high appreciation of the value of the analysis and the effects, and a feeling of unworthiness in having it, had become quite clear. A particular association was leaving the responsibility for sweets (tuck at school) with the mother. He would not take sweets with him after the holidays, but she should rather send them. They were packed into a tin, and there seemed something very wrong about that, an inexplicable feeling that it was not, as it were, her job to send them in a way which left some responsibility with her which she should not have. This had connected with feelings that however valuable the analysis might be, he does not make the best of it, or won’t do in the future.

My suggestion in the preceding hour had been that he would use the interpretations, and the analysis, in the wrong way, that he would not make the best of it. Now an association produced on the 7th was that after having left me, at the moment of going out of the room, he had suddenly had an association that in fact he would make use of the analysis in such a way that it would improve his earning capacity, and he disliked the thought that he would use it to make money.

Now there are here two trends of thought which became quite clear in the present hour: The good thing, the milk, the nipple, taken in would be changed into faeces and thus be completely destroyed – money making – bad purposes.

This is the way in which the nipple, and now my interpretations, would be treated while being taken in. The object would be destroyed, the “death head”, which himself felt was a later elaboration of what was felt dangerously destroyed in those early days, is the object- in this case me. Therefor the tin in which the sweets were packed is not only his inside in which he should not take the sweets, but it is more specifically the mouth and the teeth (the edges of the tin).

The very strong feeling that it was not his fault, because it was pushed, thrust on him, seems to connect with the nipple being pushed into him. And here the object itself becomes the teeth, a condensation of what is being done to the object and reflected in his attitude towards him. Also why was the nipple given to him? But there seemed to have been in fact at the very beginning of feeding great difficulties because the mother had been very ill, and X has a feeling- not supported by what he had heard- that for some time she could not have fed him. In his view, since she was so ill at his birth, some weeks could have elapsed before she could feed him. A view which seems rather phantastic when he was going over it in this hour, because what would have happened to the milk?

He had been told that his breast feeding otherwise had been normal up to about 8 months but with the strong feeling that to begin with there had been a long gap, a very long time before he started on it. The present impression was that he might have had very great difficulties in taking the nipple, perhaps because of a break in the beginning or perhaps because of fears, as the mother, who was on the whole affectionate and patient, was apt to be erratic and if things did not go well, impatient. The possibility appears that if at the beginning of the feeding there had been difficulties due to starting a little too late with the breast being given and to his difficulties, she might have been impatient and thrust the nipple into his mouth.

Very fundamental attitudes seem to be connected with this. Incapacity to make use of very great gifts in him, of choosing, or trying to get the best thing, to make use of opportunities – against that in the same way a tendency to thrust responsibility on to others which was in fact not carried out. A very strong drive to get the best opportunities and also to make use of them, but with a constant conflict over these two attitudes which no doubt had to some extent a paralysing effect.

An interesting point is the vision of the “death head” in front of the mouth, outside. It seems to show so closely the process of the object still outside and at the same time already internalised and again externalised – on the boundary. As well as the actual external object, the nipple, changed into this destroyed object.

Memories in feelings are not an unknown fact. But this should be put versus what is called “memories”. I find them in such ways also with adults, that the whole situation becomes alive. All this shows in attitudes and is connected with the transference situation.

--------------------------

References:

Klein, Melanie (1957) Envy and Gratitude. In Envy and Gratitude and Other Works, The Writings of Melanie Klein Volume III. London: Hogarth 1975.

[bygosscarmine]

A PERILOUS ENGAGEMENT

Man from UNCLE - Wife or Knife AU

for @karis-the-fangirl  later rather than sooner, but here is the fruit of your Wife or Knife AU in my imagination!

It’s ended up being less about the source material and way more about the potential of a very rigid, very tall man being forced by a small pistol of a woman into a [fake?] relationship. It was incredibly fun to write, and rewrite. I hope it’s enjoyable to read!

1/12

The ball may have been the event of the season in the country town of Middleton, but it was hardly high society. This should have set Elias Carrick at ease. Considering that he wasn't really meant to be in Middleton, and his friend Napoleon was so determined he should go, the general effect was a more subtle form of disquiet.

Napoleon was not the actual inmate of Elba Island, but a friend from Oxford given the moniker for reasons best left unsaid in polite society: more properly George Solo. His reassurances were to the tune of, “If you’re ever to make vicar from curate, you’ll need connections. And to make connections you need polish. The first step to polish is to at least have attended a party once.” Not reassuring, and putting rather a lot of weight on a single performance.

Solo had been in the neighborhood of Middleton kicking his heels at his uncle’s home for several weeks. Finding that Carrick would pass through the country on his way to the parish in the North, he had invited him to stop for a short holiday. Carrick had surprised even himself by accepting. The amusements had been tame enough so far, but he could not shake the sense he might end up regretting this whim deeply. He had regretted every other caper the dashing but devious-minded Solo had drawn him into, back in the day.

He stood feeling rather like a lamp-post at the edge of a London bustle, stock-still and being bumped into as if practically invisible. There were silks and muslins fluttering about, and smart jackets darting between them, all turning eager faces towards each other with smiles in their eyes. The chandelier light filled the room with a slight haze of smoke, and the heat of so many people all crowded together made him feel a little out of sorts. He had attended a middle-aged woman to a seat, and had been quite happy to allow her to gossip away at him, but had been supplanted by a matron who thought she was rescuing him. Now he had to find some other way to be politely engaged in the party, and Solo was at his elbow to make sure he did.

"Solo! My boy," said a figure of rather aged splendor, approaching. "And your friend, delightful!"

Solo made his introductions between Carrick and the Squire--his uncle was helping the Squire in some matters of business, and the man had generously included them all in his invitation. The dubious nature of inviting the man of business's nephew and friend to a ball was probably just a highlight of the country life, but Carrick felt as though he shouldn't have accepted.

"You know, there just aren't enough handsome lads about in these parts to do the pretty, so it's a famous thing to have a few visitors! Now, come, I must carry you off to please the young ladies."

Understandably, he took Solo along first, and Carrick purposefully missed his look of beckoning, to remain shored up in the debris of the party's tides. The Squire bore back down on him pitilessly, however, and ushered him along to stand up with a young woman of reddish blonde hair and a delicate face. Since Carrick was well over six foot, and built on the lines of yeoman, she seemed to be in some terror of him.

He said gently, "I am not sure I will get all the steps right," since he knew that his preference for silence did not strike people as comforting. She glanced up at him nervously, but when he moved without too much clumsiness she seemed relieved, and even made some remarks to him as if taking pity.

Being a man of the cloth did seem to excite a certain tendency toward pity in women. At least he had found it so. She left his side at the end of the set without hesitation, but with a polite word of thanks, so she was not fleeing him, either.

He had hoped to disappear into the crowd again, but Solo bore down on him with a woman who he clearly had been dancing with himself, as they laughed together. She was dressed as a matron, but still young and lively, which suited Solo. In fact, she appeared to be a widow as well. Her dark eyes were gleaming as Solo said, "Elias Carrick, madame. Future vicar and current scrapegrace. Carrick, this is Mrs. Hettisham, the Squire's daughter."

"Pleased," said Carrick, bowing.

"Keep her safe from that clumsy fellow in the eyesore coat by taking the next dance, all right?"

"It would be my pleasure," said Carrick.

The woman was quite kind to Carrick, and far from nervous. He enjoyed the scant moments they had in each other's company in the country dance that was raucous and so disorderly that when he forgot his steps it was quite unnoticeable.

"Ah, it is so nice to dance again," said Mrs. Hettisham. "But I must retire or my mother's friends will think me quite lost in dissipation."

"Let me see you to a couch, ma'am," said Carrick. He hoped to settle her and then give her company, since it would mean not having to meet yet another stranger. However, the Squire was busier about the room than his slow gait would have led one to expect. He was at Carrick's elbow almost immediately, with another blushing young lady who had no partner.

As they entered their apartments at the inn after the evening, Carrick told his friend, "If you wished for me to go to this party to gain a little polish, I can't see how it could have answered the purpose. I spent the whole evening scaring little girls."

"Sometimes learning that you are the scariest thing in a room is just the thing to find the proper confidence. Mrs. Hettisham is a wonderful example. A woman who certainly knows her own worth well enough to command whatever situation she is in."

"She is lovely."

"You know, I don't think she is?" said Solo, musingly. "But it makes no difference."

-

Gabrielle Seymour was meant to be in mourning. In truth, she grieved, and was mourning the loss. She was impatient with the form of the thing, however, which seemed to force her to sit and think about how unhappy she was and how little she could do about it. She had "borrowed" some clothes from one of the maids to sneak down and at least listen to the music, but had been forced to take up a position in a corner just enough obscured from the ballroom to see the edges of the dance while also worrying someone would stumble onto her taking the wrong door for supper.

She was choosing her moment to sneak back away, and it was probably now. Her aunt was safely ensconced close to the door to the dining room where she could scrutinize her staff's missteps closely in setting refreshments, and her uncle was now holding court in the card room where his status as host would not prevent him from losing a great deal of petty cash to his guests.

Just then, her elder cousin Lady Hettisham darted over as if to smooth her skirts out of the crush. “Have you seen them?” this dab of a woman in a charming half-mourning of watered silk asked in an undertone.

“I can’t see a thing from here, as you well know, Maria,” Gabrielle retorted.

“Oh, do keep an eye out,” the young widow said, and escaped to not bring attention that way.

Gabrielle could not hazard a guess what it was Maria wished her to see, since what she found immensely entertaining ranged from a truly terrible clash of jewelry to signs of an incipient tendré between ill-matched young people.

Gabrielle was just timing her dart across the hall, risking being glimpsed from the door, toward the servant stair when she saw the stranger Maria had wanted her to notice. A fair man of some height was leading Mrs. Pratt to a seat at the wall. Gabrielle knew from her own experience of coming into this neighborhood several years before that Mrs. Pratt looked even at first sight like an obnoxious woman and proved to be so in a very short time of acquaintance, but he was leaning down to hear her over the music with an intent expression. He not only helped her to her seat but sat beside her as a sacrificial lamb to her conversation, without the slightest appearance of humoring someone he wished to avoid. For a moment, Gabrielle sat riveted by the grave, square face of the young man at her uncle's ball. Then she recollected that if she could see him so well, they also might see her, despite her drab dress. The odd pair had found the few chairs shoved beside this side of the fireplace, which she had relied on being unwanted as both hot and cramped. She fled as smoothly as possible from the area.

Maria was happily chattering as her maid undressed her when Gabrielle knocked and entered.

"Someone had a delightful time tonight," Gabrielle said, keeping her voice light.

"I had never thought a Middleton ball might see a rake who knows just how to entertain a young widow," said Maria with a chuckle. "It takes so very little to make me feel gratified this way!"

She cast a more piercing look at Gabrielle, however, and said, "You did not enjoy yourself, did you, coz?"

"My disguise made it quite impossible for me to do so," Gabrielle said drily. "I had to hide in a corner and wish in vain to be brought a cool drink. I saw that large, fair man with Mrs. Pratt, but you would be put to the test to convince me he was a rake.”

"Oh no! He danced by me with little Georgina, and looked as though he were trying to juggle eggs, he was so nervous and gentle. I believe he is destined for the church. Luckily, his friend is destined to be a man of business. I do not understand how they are friends."

Gabrielle asked for more details on the flirtation, so she might not have to discuss more about her own evening, and soon bid her cousin goodnight. She spent some time in her own bed thinking, however. It made more sense that her cousin had been pointing to two strangers, particularly one who had flirted with her. 

It stung more than it ought to that there were young visitors in the village that she would probably never meet. She didn’t want a London season, or even to be asked to dance at the ball--she just hated to be hidden from the world as if it were shameful that she had lost both her parents. As if she was too young to be trusted to behave in company like a mourner.

If they didn't treat her so much like a disobedient pup, she would have an easier time behaving.

-

Link to all posted chapters here.

[thebeautyofdisorder]

The Undone & The Divine (BBC Dracula) - Chapter 9

A/N: Hey, it wasn’t a full two weeks this time, yay. The ending got a bit poetic on me, I’m going to warn you, and I really don’t know why. But hey, it is what it is. Vampires and drama rather go hand in hand, right? Unresolved tension and vampirism lay ahead. Also a terrible pun or two.

Pairing: Dracula & Agatha/Zoe, off and on Dracula/OC

Rating: M, for blood, language, mercenaries with guns, blood drinking and hints at violence/death.

Chapters 1-2 Here - Chapter 3 Here - Chapter 4 Here - Chapter 5 Here - Chapter 6 Here - Chapter 7 Here - Chapter 8 Here

Can be found on AO3 - Right HERE - or enjoy below the cut

Tagging some new followers in case they wanna check it out. If not, don’t feel bad to ask to be removed either! And I let me know if the tags fails to work entirely? Tried copying/pasting and just re-tagging.

"You needed me, didn't you?"

Zoe quirked a skeptical brow at the Count's surface-level consideration, not buying its sincerity for a moment. But that certainly didn't mean she wouldn't take advantage of it. As wont she was to admit it, she did in fact 'need him' for once.

"Do you even know what I need you for?" She asked, curious.

"I believe I 'get the gist' - you need to compare the effects of proper sustenance to whatever muck you've concocted. And considering you're refusing to properly nourish yourself to make that comparison, then naturally I'd be the only acceptable substitute."

She nodded, a smirk tilting her mouth to one side. "What do you want?"

He blinked in what was almost mistakable for innocent confusion.

"I'm sorry?"

Zoe scoffed, smirk still in place. "Don't pretend you're going to inconvenience yourself for something you completely disapprove of and not expect anything in return," she prodded knowingly. "Out with it."

The Count mirrored her smirk, taking her in with silent consideration. He could hear the whispers from the humans around them outside of the glass, those both panicked and conspiratorial, though they made for a pleasant bit of background noise to their negotiation. He understood that was exactly what it was, after all, anytime they spoke, and he was looking forward to the challenge.

"We both want the same thing, Dr. Helsing."

"And what is that?"

"To understand ourselves and in turn, each other," he replied simply, gesturing between them. "And funnily enough, neither of us can do that alone."

"Are none of your other 'experiments' going well?" She couldn't help but ask dryly.

He quirked a smug brow at her tone, the accusation of jealousy remaining unsaid but no less audible for it.

She scoffed, looking down at the table in annoyance.

"Perhaps I'd rather wallow in my success before risking disappointment."

"Poke and prod at your success you mean?"

"In a manner of speaking," he grinned, though seeing her returning glare, as endearing as it was, he redirected his approach slightly.

"From one scientific mind to another, you know as well as I do that working together is the best way to each get the answers we're looking for."

"I told you I wouldn't help you infect all of London," Zoe persisted, though more weakly than she'd originally intended.

He gave a shrug of his left shoulder. "For all you know, you could be encouraging me not to. Depends on what our findings are, yes?"

She narrowed her eyes, though he could see Agatha's vehement disapproval radiating through Zoe's wavering will.

"Since when did you learn patience?"

Dracula's amusement wavered, accusation coloring his tone, though it was too soft to belly resentment. "Since I learned there's nothing to be impatient for."

Zoe frowned, studying him further. "You won't harm anyone here."

It wasn't a question, though unlike when Dr. Connors had demanded the same, Dracula gave a short nod of agreement, eyes never leaving hers.

They made an interesting sight, if the focused attention was anything to go by. Two dark haired creatures of the night in what appeared to anyone outside the glass to be a standoff. Their conversation had been mostly spoken in murmurs - to their ears perfectly audible, but even with the sound enhancement, from the outside practically silent. A frustrating thing, if the purple hue of Dr. Connors' face was anything to go by, as Zoe briefly observed when she finally took her eyes off the vampire to observe their onlookers.

"Fine. But I still maintain my diet, and I want to know everything you know - no secrets, no assumptions," Zoe conceded, her stubborn posture relaxing only faintly. She couldn't completely let down her guard, even around him. "And I'll offer the same."

His lips tilted. "Are you saying you have secrets now?" He asked, his eyes glinting mischievously.

"Maybe I do," she replied, her poker face in full deployment.

The Count's brows gave a playful wag as he held out his hand, large and clawed as it was, over the table that separated them in a gesture of relatively peaceful acceptance.

"We have an accord then? From one lab rat to another."

Zoe studied it for a half a moment, the hand that had been wrapped with no effort at all around her throat not long before, before finally placing her petite hand in his, immediately feeling his long fingers curling around the whole of it. She could only grasp them in turn to hold her ground, forcing the image from her mind for multiple reasons, namely his ability to peek at it.

"We do. Permitted that you behave yourself."

"Only when absolutely necessary," he assured her in only a breath above a whisper with his most charming grin.

She rolled her eyes in return, but didn't argue. That was the best she could hope for with him.

There was an audible ah-ha-hem projected into the room, and they both turned with unenthused expressions towards the persistent if still clearly terrified face of Dr. Connors. Dracula’s upper lip curled upward in a quiet snarl and Zoe gave him a side-eye which he only faintly acknowledged.

“Count Dracula will be our control, we’ll reconvene after later testing,” Zoe announced loudly, and much to her pleasant surprise, despite looking like he wanted to argue, the other doctor just gave a curt nod and quickly began to gather his things to leave. Probably to go ‘report back’, she was sure. The rest of her colleagues seemed to be joining suit just as quickly if not more so. She looked back at the vampire’s faintly amused expression only to just take note of the fact that he hadn’t let go of her hand, and quickly pulled it back from his grasp.

His lips pursed slightly, but he didn’t, much to her relief, seem inclined to rub the slip of comfortability with him in her face, at least not at the moment. Thank heaven for small mercies.

“I suppose I should leave you to your preparations before I frighten anyone else away,” Dracula mused aloud, already gesturing outward to Dr. Bloxham to open the door – he could’ve just forced it easily, but he had said he would try to ‘behave’. Destroying their elaborate, if entirely useless toy cage would certainly be frowned upon – at least until they figured out exactly how useless it was. Now that was a day he was looking forward to.

“I do that perfectly fine all by myself, thanks,” she replied wryly, gathering her things and joining him where he awaited her by the exit, so used to playing the gentlemen she wasn’t sure if he even realized how much of a default it had become as he fell into step at her side.

“Wait until I teach you how to do it properly,” he suggested with a wag of his brows.

“I suppose that’s part of your experimentation process,” she replied blandly, turning towards him as they paused just outside of the main chamber.

“Naturally. Plus, it just sounds like fun,” the Count couldn’t help but admit, a gleeful smile brightening his features. “I want to, as Agatha enjoyed putting it, see the limit of your capabilities’.”

“And apparently the limits of my patience,” she prodded back, gesturing her head towards the elevators. “You saw your way in, I expect you can see your way out. I have work to do.”

“Good night, Zoe. And do try not to poison me again,” he made a mocking gesture of praying hands that brought him far more amusement than it really should have, before she saw him turn to walk away.

She took a much heavier breath than she really needed to. What in the hell had she just agreed to?

-----

It was pitch black when the vampire found himself re-entering the bounds of London proper, drawn by the crowds of lives and the unmistakable need for sustenance. He perused his phone, skimming past a decent hoard of messages from some of his more persistent conquests – he wasn’t exactly in the mood to play to anyone else’s whims tonight, and certainly not anyone vying for immortality. Normally he was delighted to corrupt the willing human mind, but as always in the wake of facing the trademark Van Helsing defiance, he found himself craving more of a challenge. A tiresome side effect, to be sure.

There was much to be had from good, old fashioned subservience, but every once and a while he did appreciate having to make an effort. Alas, the minute anyone discovered what Dracula was, they tended to attempt to appease him. No, please, I’ll do whatever it is that you want. Don’t kill me. Or they just downright bared their throat like a sacrificial lamb. A beautiful thing to behold, but hardly satisfying. And the aftertaste of idiocy that someone trying to fight him in earnest would leave made him cringe.

No, he needed an unsuspecting meal this evening. The Count’s thumb hovered over Kat’s name in his phone, lingering there for a long moment before heaving a dramatic sigh and putting the mobile device away entirely. Unsuspecting, yes, but she was too clever to remain that way for long if he made feeding from her a regular occurrence. He wanted to save her for a… later occasion. Seeing how long he could keep up the façade of humanity with her was an amusement, while fun, he didn’t have the patience for at the present.

He took to the streets instead, perusing his options - an old evil in a new world. It was beginning to storm, but in England that hardly limited his options by much. The expectation of rain seemed to be so ingrained into the minds of the locals that it didn’t even cause most of them to speed up or pause like it would elsewhere in the world. Even in the brightest sun, it seemed to him that the common businessman would sooner be caught without an umbrella than a warrior of old be caught without his sword. Just such a man caught Dracula’s eye.

Leant up against an aging brick wall under the awning of a restaurant with his umbrella at his side, the man was utterly oblivious to other passerby, a look of stern concentration on his face directed at his mobile phone quickly melting into impatience. It gave the vampire a moment to study him in proper detail. He was perhaps just over thirty, fine of feature, but well dressed in a way that spoke of refinement without determination. His expensive suit was crumpled, his hair tousled, and he sported a rough day-old shave that looked more like indifference than ineptitude while a half-smoked cigarette hung lazily from his lips.

Clearly, this was not a man who would be difficult to lure away. In fact, his very countenance radiated someone who wanted an escape and was failing to find one. Perfection, Dracula thought as he made his way up the darkened alley that exited on the narrow walk where he stood, leaning against the opposite side of the wall.

“Someone run over your dog?” He asked in a wry, pseudo-casual way, pulling out his own phone from his coat pocket.

The man looked up, in mild surprise, brow furrowed at the older man who he swore hadn’t been there half a second before, though it only stalled him for a moment, pulling the cigarette from his mouth.

“Oh…the wait time for a car’s bloody ridiculous tonight.”

“So I am seeing,” Dracula agreed blandly, scanning his own screen with practiced annoyance.

“Fuck I want to get out of here… apologies, this really isn’t my type of 'scene'.”

The vampire chuckled, flashing him a charming smile experimentally. “The stuffy overpriced scene? Congratulations.”

The younger man returned a slightly lopsided grin, though a tad more cautiously. “Yeah, more of a business…thing.”

“If you're interested in splitting a cab, we could try the main stretch back this way,” Dracula gestured with his head, through the alley he had come through that opened up to a street on the other side with a few more lights than the one they were currently occupying. Granted if one made it through the narrow darkness.

The younger man disguised his pause of consideration with a final long drag of his cigarette, but proceeded to nod as he flicked the butt into the sewer drain just ahead of them. The vampire could see the brief trail of thoughts as they flicked through the man's eyes with practiced ease. What harm could it possibly do? Not likely to be a thief, tall but I could take him if necessary.

"Why not? Better than standing about." He agreed, plucking up his umbrella from where it leant against the wall at his side. He didn't bother to open it.

Taking a last moment to eye his phone and pocket it, Dracula allowed the younger man to begin to walk ahead of him, giving him the lead. His pulse was calm, calmer than most when joining a stranger in a dark place. He'd drank, but nothing substantial, clearly wanting to keep up appearances - not enough to thin out the blood too much or taint the flavor. Good, the vampire conceded, he truly did hate that.

"So where are you headed?" He asked after a moment, interrupting the silence, keeping the man in a comfortable state. Conversation did, after all, proceed dinner.  

Whatever his answer was, the Count didn't bother to acknowledge it, already tuning his ears away from  the young man's voice to the steady beat of his heart. He allowed the thrum to overtake him, fill his senses completely until even his forced breaths and his footfalls kept in time with it.

They had neared the midway point now, and the sounds of other passerby were beginning to taint the pitter-patter of rainfall that provided the counterpoint to the lively rush of blood pumping under skin. The younger man paused his slightly speedy pace to check for his packet of cigarettes, but before his fingers could separate the damp material of his jacket, there were jagged bricks at his back and a large hand encaging his throat, halting any chance of escape.

His brows rose in bewilderment as dank breath cooled his throat, but just before the first tricklings of fear and panic began to descend - the vampire struck, sharpened teeth breaking skin and the coppery aroma of blood perfumed the air.

The young man's entire body tensed, broad shoulders flexing uselessly against Dracula's iron grip and the growing wave of lethargy that slowly but surely drug him into easeful darkness. Something akin to a groan, of protest or pleasure he would never know, fell from his slackened lips into the night.

Suppressed fury,  intelligence and crushing waves of obsession filled the vampire’s mouth. A search for a man with no face, a splatter of blood on porcelain, and the love of a man with dead eyes and an angel’s face.

He’d always been a sucker for the tragic ones.

----

Zoe’s head wrung with rhythm of a stranger’s heart, thumping faster and faster and then slowly, ever so slowly easing back into a distant low hum. She froze, waiting with equal parts sickening dread and impatience for the pulse to stop completely and still to deadly silence...but the moment of death never came. Once again, Dracula had left his victim to a peaceful slumber - for how long, she didn’t know. She never knew. But somewhere in the night thunder clapped, and she could feel the pang of excitement and strangely, the hollow feeling of loss that accompanied it as lighting cracked the sky soon after.

His name was Malcolm and he was dreaming peacefully of vengeance.

----

Yeah, not really sure where that came from, but I just felt like writing him being a bit predatory. Then got some good old fashioned human murder concepts in my head and well...here we are. Enjoy, lovelies. Always let me know what you think! And if anyone ever has any ideas, suggestions, etc do let me know. I’m a fickle little thing who’s easily influenced and always looking for fresh inspiration for this chaos. 

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[abaddonrighthandofgod]

Wait, if you realise there's difference between God and Doflamingo, why would you consider him a god in the first place? Wouldn't pushing him to become a god only backfire once he meets the One above him (assuming that God does exist ofc)? Makes you a devil honestly, especially since he's your friend

For a moment he wondered what exactly he was feeling, and then he realised what it was. Delight. Nothing was more fun than discussing thought provoking questions, a hobby he loved to indulge in but rarely could. 

“When you hear the term god, you surely don’t think of Celestial Dragons. Rightfully so. You probably think of Christian God, Muslim God, Greek gods, Roman gods, etc. To people, gods are divine beings above them, something distant. Powerful beings they can’t fully understand as mere mortals. Or, as a matter of fact, do not wish to fully understand, otherwise gods lose their purpose.”

Of course, there were people who wanted nothing but to understand god, but there was also difference between understanding god and understanding his actions. Which may be what people who were curios wanted. Not to understand god as a divine being, unravelling all of his layers and understanding him on an intimate level, but rather why he does things the way he does, his logic and reasons behind them. 

He would even argue that people thought the purpose of gods was to take blame or credit for whatever was happening in the world. If people were suddenly to find out there was no such a thing as god’s plan, but rather god’s playground, they’d flip. There was certainly comfort in believing everything happened for a reason, knowing that there was a higher being who would make everything right later. Be it later in life, or later in death.

“What I want, and essentially why I said there’s difference between Doffy and God, is for Doffy to be above Him. To surpass the wildest beliefs people had about divine beings and to show them what and who a god really is. I want everyone to first think of Doffy when they hear the word god. And trust me, I know him, he’d take that throne for himself if a chance presented itself.” Those were just his wishes, of course, what Doffy would do or become was all up to him. Free to choose whatever his heart wishes for.

It was a ridiculously high standard he set for his best friend, just as high as he set his own, but he also knew that if there was anyone to pull that off, it was Doflamingo. Admittedly, Vergo would also be the first one to point out that the current Doflamingo wasn’t above the gods people usually thought of. There was still a lot of things for his friend to do before he reached that state.

“The reason why I consider him a god is simple. I can. I chose that freely because I wanted to. When I first met him, I wasn’t searching for god, I was searching for a friend. Somewhere along the line I remembered my fascination with God and decided to sought my own. He’s everything to me, a friend and a god. To tell the truth, the fact he’s a former Celestial Dragon doesn’t influence that. Celestial Dragons are, being brutally honest here, descendants of former kings and queens, not gods. Even if he wasn’t among them, Doffy would always be unique, different, something far greater.” It wasn’t so simple to explain where his idea of Doflamingo as a god came from and why he, the logical person that he was, would support it when religious themes were often considered science fiction. 

“The same way people could tell Jesus was the son of God, I can tell Doffy is a god. Now, I don’t even think of him as a fallen god, rather a young god in the making. God yet to become his true self. And gaining immortality would be the first step to take.” That was the best way he could put it, as he didn’t have purely logical evidence to back up his claims, just as it was with other religions. You either believe or you do not.

The only problem Vergo saw in the whole picture was Doflamingo’s status as a king. As long as Vergo would see him as a king first rather than a god, it would mean Doffy wasn’t there yet. He actually had a love-hate relationship with that status, for various reasons. Just thinking about those reasons made him uncomfortable. Some were even trivial things, but when one has such great expectations it’s hard to avoid feeling that way.

“Pushing him will get him to became who he really is, if anything I’m doing him a favour. I won’t deny that it’s questionable whether I’m a good friend or the worst one. But if I’m the devil, Doffy is the god, who’s the lamb?”  

[beeyeah]

Jikook: Appeal to Logic

Title: Appeal to Logic

Summary: /Jikook/ Two-shot/ Canon/ Where Jimin tries to convince Yoongi why he was positive Jungkook likes him and Yoongi asks him, “What would you do with that information?”

Indeed, Jimin wonders what the point was to all this.

Notes: I wanted to post on Valentine’s but I guess my calendar is ten days late hhhhh Anyway, I lurk a lot in Jikook tags (like I’m here everyday) and I’ve read long discourses regarding the legitimacy of their relationship. I thought it’d be interesting if one of them begins to share his proofs too and joins the hot pot of convo his own way. TLDR; enter this fic lol I promise it won’t be 20 chapters this time. 

Chapter 1 under cut or you can read at Ao3

Chapter 1: Points Were Made

It was an on and off thing.

Like a passion project that you know you just would figure how to complete someday but needed time because life would get in the way.

Today though marked the moment Park Jimin was ready to lay out his cards and tell someone that definitely… maybe… with a little more sprinkle of confidence that --

“Hyung, I think Jungkook likes me.”

There was silence in Min Yoongi’s room when the statement was pronounced. It made Jimin squirm on his seat as he tried to understand the non-committal stare directed at him, right behind the bond paper that held Jimin’s scribbled notes for lyrics.

Ah, that was right.

His initial purpose was to hear Yoongi’s feedback on a thing he'd been working on. Somewhere along the way, his thoughts drifted to another which inevitably led to his bold declaration of Jungkook’s far from familial, alleged infatuation for him.

Yoongi reached out to his left where his mug of coffee sat.

“I don't know what you want me to say. Of course, Jungkook likes you.”

Jimin frowned, wrapping his head around how he should explain himself. “No, hyung. I mean Jungkook likes me.”

Yoongi’s mouth was slightly gaped and his eyes were blank. His hyung looked lost while he attempted to blink his confusion away.

Well, his observations go way way back, two years worth of evidence. Right in the hallway of their home, an evening in October.

“Jungkook treats me differently,” he told Yoongi, legs crossed and under him as he put up a finger and discussed his first point.

It wasn't as if it was only him who questioned it. Jungkook only gave Jimin a birthday present in the span of the past years, no one else and that got to mean something.

They were all tired from shoot that most of them were tempted not to shower. Hoseok was pushing him around and urging him to a quick bath before lying on his bed because that was what Hoseok was. He liked things clean and perfect and that same rule applied for his roommate. But then Jeon Jungkook, his beloved dongsaeng, appeared out of nowhere and blocked him from his merry way to the bathroom. A little awkwardly might he add because he stood there, hand fiddling with his fringes and eyes searching the floor in trepidation. At that point, both Jimin and Hoseok unlatched themselves from each other's grip to attend to the youngest who seemed to need some attention.

To his surprise, and perhaps his hyung’s too, Jungkook held out his hand and shoved Jimin a paper bag. Hoseok curiously peeked from his shoulder as Jimin tried to open it while muttering, “What's this?”

Jungkook answered with a shrug and he waited. He waited there and watched Jimin opened his present.

It wasn't even anything grand. In this stage of their career, they were just beginning to gain traction from their first win and as Namjoon had put it, at breakeven, to finally enjoy the fruits of their hard labor. Knowing how their earnings were distributed based on performance and royalty fees, Jimin was pretty sure Jungkook received the same profit he did. To be honest, it wasn't exactly much. The only difference was that Jimin was prone to lavish it on people while Jungkook would save it for practical and grander things.

The practical, grander things in Jungkook’s head was Jimin. Bought him a sweatshirt which costed around 44,000 krw. Jimin researched the price because he was curious how much the maknae was willing to spend on him.

No greeting cards. Not a high end brand. Just plain white paper bag from the department store where he bought his first gift for a Bangtan member.

Needless to say, Jimin was ecstatic and made sure to rub it on everyone's face.

“Jimin-ah,” Yoongi tried to interrupt him but he shushed the older with an afterthought.

“It wasn't the gift that's strange. Jungkook's face was really weird when I thanked him.”

Jimin knew Jungkook well enough to know when he was happy. Whatever gratefulness he saw on Jimin’s face translated on how satisfied Jungkook was on what he did. There was a sense of pride and innocent glee in Jungkook’s eyes similar to the way they would twinkle when he was offered cheesecake or lamb skewers. It was odd how he was comparing himself to food but Yoongi would probably understand the reference. He would bring Jungkook to lamb skewers so often that the maknae even vowed to stay with him forever if he would agree to become business partners.

That was beside the point.

Back then, Jimin thought he was onto something but the idea didn't linger because it was indeed a special occasion. Jungkook was a good dongsaeng and treated his hyung well even outside their birthdays so, on a second thought, it wasn't really much of an evidence.

The hand that held Jimin’s lyrics now dangled limply over the office chair’s armrest.

“Jimin-ah, just get to the point.”

Jimin pursed his lips. As far as he was concerned, he was straightforward from the get-go. He thought Jungkook likes him and he stated the fact right on, now presenting his evidence.

“Number two,” he said after lifting another finger. Perhaps Yoongi wanted him to speed things up and he should. He certainly didn't have all day with their comeback looming around the corner. “Jungkook thinks I'm beautiful.”

Yoongi’s confusion had more color to it this time. Beyond his blinking eyes that questioned where this conversation was headed, his brows met when he spoke, “Should this really be coming out of your own mouth?”

“It didn't come from me. Jungkook told me,” he replied, voice defensive.

“Jungkook thinks you're cute. But so do I. Might as well tell me that all members like you.”

“No,” Jimin answered, tucking his arm in and across his chest. His eyes narrowed, teeth worrying his lips, trying to recall the exact moment that prompted him to ask the youngest. “Ah, that's right,” he muttered when the epiphany came. He searched his pockets for his phone and scrolled through countless and countless of albums of selcas and videos of him with Bangtan.

It was somewhere in there.

“Hyung… this,” he finally said after almost five minutes of sifting through his files.

Yoongi’s back was facing him after he stopped talking to look for his proof. He really should've prepared it beforehand. Now his hyung seemed to have completely lost his interest. He was typically patient to listen, but Jimin interrupted him when he was in the midst of editing a melody submission.

Though Yoongi said it was fine. Jimin would be his breath of fresh air because the team would so rarely go out during crucial period right before their comeback. He knew better not to push the limit but it was tempting and he needed someone to listen to him.

He pulled the bean bag next to his hyung’s leg, lifted his phone so that Yoongi would be able to see what he was referencing to.

His hair was pink, the clip a mere six- seconder. He was staring at the camera, trying to appeal to ARMY. He needed it. There was this greedy part of him that wanted to know how they would react to his flirting. Tell people, ‘Hey, Jimin is right here and this is how he looks right now. His hair changed.’ That kind of drill right before their comeback and their response would in a way boost his confidence. A conscious tactic to keep his fans interested in him perhaps?

“What do you think?”

Yoongi made a face and pulled back to a cringe as he'd expected. Highly likely, he would've done the same thing if any other member showed him a video of themselves. So he merely nodded in agreement. Bangtan wasn't the audience for this video. ARMY was.

“Do you know how Jungkookie reacted when I showed this to him?”

Yoongi sighed. “Would I want to know?”

“He replayed it, hyung,” he said as a matter-of-factly. “He told me I should post it because our fans would love it. Which I did, if you remember.”

“I don't,” Yoongi admitted and turned his chair so that he was facing Jimin, a leg over the other while he waited for him to continue.

“I posted it on Twitter and do you know who posted afterwards?”

“Jungkook?”

It wasn't a wild guess.

“Yeah,” Jimin confirmed the obvious. “After 10 minutes, he posted something and you know what it said?”

No response.

“He posted a song.”

The title was right on the hashtag #ILYSB by Lany.

When it came to music that wasn't in their own language, Jimin would seldom take efforts to find translation. So long as he understood bits and pieces of what little English he knew, he could work around it. Namjoon said to be careful of listening to artists that might cause uproar by association, so he would still have to check it out if he'd want to share it with the fans. But for as much as he believed that lyricism was a key ingredient to any good music, Jimin preferred to feel rather than completely understand and analyze. That job was for their leader.

However, he decided that he wanted to fathom the youngest’s thoughts that night.

The noob part of him thought the title was some secret internet code popular in the west so he searched naver only to be greeted by a simple yet telling I love you so bad. His mouth formed an ‘oh’ when he realized that it might've been an intense confession. It invariably piqued his curious mind so that later he would be listening on loop to… and you need to know that I'm hella obsessed with your face.

“You're reading into it too much,” Yoongi told him with a shake of his head as he reached again for his coffee. “I'm not one to judge who you want to date, but think how this appears to other people.” Yoongi paused, seemingly debating what he should and shouldn't say next. “Jimin-ah, a lot could happen in ten minutes. Like you, Jungkook might be sending that message to the fans. Namjoon recommends a lot of songs. It wouldn't be about us.”

“I know, so I asked him directly.”

Yoongi almost spat his drink on him. He tapped his chest as he drowned out his cough to reaffirm. “Ya, you what?”

“I asked him if the lyrics were about me.”

“And?”

“He laughed,” Jimin confessed.

Truth be told, his ego was slightly hurt to see Jungkook’s initial response to his question. He was serious about it because he was just about more than a quarter sure about his theory. It didn't feel good to have this kid finding amusement to something he pored over. He could've just said ‘no’ outrightly and Jimin wouldn't have minded.

Jungkook’s laughter died down when he saw Jimin’s expression transform and he was reaching out for his hand in apology before he knew it.

Jimin let him hold him.

“It was…” he almost sounded uncertain. “Hyung, why are you being like this?” Sounded almost helpless and then relenting, “Yeah, it was about you. I was nervous so I laughed.” Instinctively, his free hand reached for his fringes like the night of Jimin’s birthday.

When he saw the younger fidget, Jimin felt relieved. Ah, he still knew Jungkook better than anyone. Mindful to see every little shift in the air, Jimin wasn't wrong in reading the situation.

He ruffled Jungkook's head and returned the wide staring with his own curled eyes in amusement. “I knew it,” mumbled to himself and turned once he got the confirmation that he wanted.

“You just left?” Yoongi asked him, tone surprised that it nudged some bafflement at the back of Jimin’s head.

He bobbed his head yes because, well, what else was he supposed to do? He already proved he was right. Yoongi hadn't even heard the rest of his evidences yet.

“Three,” he said to share what was left in his folder.

“Stop,” Yoongi said, planting a foot on Jimin's thigh to emphasize the urgency of his demand.

Jimin slapped the foot away and dusted off his pants.

“Do you even like Jungkook?”

He tilted his head sideways. “Of course,” Jimin answered simply, wondering why it was even a question in the first place. He liked Jungkook. Jungkook was and still is his favorite dongsaeng and BTS member. He'd take care of him even if he grew his muscles and grew taller than him.

Yoongi shook his head. “I don't think we're talking about the same thing.”

“For the third one… ” Jimin took in the opportunity of minute lag on Yoongi’s response to divert the conversation back to the task at hand. He really didn't understand what Yoongi meant but better to finish this off before his momentum dried and faltered.

He picked up his phone again and browsed through his apps. It was quite a long memory lane down Vapp’s timeline until he found the correct reference. He slid the video right on the important moment, him in his bathrobe with Taehyung’s voice singing in the background. The camera was on with Jungkook in his white shirt’s glory, sitting for all ARMY to see.

“That's right… Jimin-hyung is bad at playing games,” Jungkook said to echo his claim.

Back then, the staff berated them silently to turn off vapp. Jungkook was too loud. Jimin wasn't kidding when he said he was hearing him across the hallway. They were only given five hours to eat, take a bath, and nap before they reconvene for post-con review and plan out the adjustments in their set list but this kid chose to do an hour of live for the fans.

Jimin was out his room because Sungdeuk wanted to talk to Hoseok. They needed to work on spacing for Not Today. Their hyung thought they didn't maximize the stage well enough and he was also keen to give feedback on blockings for medley so they could properly execute group choreography for Bultaoreune.

Hoseok was too tired to get up his bed so he texted Jimin if he could get the notes in his place. Which Jimin was happy to do. He loved the fact that Hoseok trusted him and it gave him a sense of pride.

He and Sungdeuk were just about done talking when the older guy stopped him from his tracks by grabbing his arm.

“Can you tell Jungkook to tone it down a little? I heard he opened vapp but everyone's tired.”

Jimin honestly didn't want to deal with it. He was wearing his bathrobe without any make-up and only rushed out in the middle of his evening skin care routine because he wanted to be a useful dongsaeng to Hosoek and let him have an early rest. If he so much as spoke, audible for fans to hear, people were going to ask and he'd have to show himself on camera. Jeon Jungkook, really this kid should know when to stop.

“You know Jungkook listens to you well.”

Jimin jutted out his lower lip, “He doesn't.”

He could already imagine the maknae turning the volume up further for the sake of raising his hackles. Sungdeuk knew this but he was asking Jimin to do it because he knew Jimin couldn't say no when it came to Jungkook.

“Alright, alright,” he said, bobbing his head weakly and dragging his feet towards Jungkook’s room.

Across the end of the floor, he saw Taehyung towing right behind their leader who whispered him something. It made his friend glance at his direction and the next thing he knew, Namjoon was off his room and Taehyung was walking the opposite direction.

Taehyung got hold up by Sungdeuk who was midway his own room and right then, Jimin pressed on Jungkook’s room’s bell and twisted the knob open.

“I heard you from the neighboring room. Let me sleep,” he said, trying to keep his tone annoyed and nagging even when Jungkook was beaming at him so widely. “Stop singing in the middle of the night. Go to sleep.”

“You're losing me here, Jimin-ah. This is just you trying to discipline Jungkook. I would've scolded him the same.”

“Hyung,” Jimin replied sternly, eyes determined and a hand squeezing Yoongi’s thigh. “Did you watch it? Jungkook wanted my attention.”

Yoongi leaned back on his chair, challenging.

“Well, it wasn't even about that.”

His proof went beyond Jungkook's childish yet so endearing attempts to make Jimin come back and join his live. He slid the video right back to the moment and handed his phone in Yoongi’s hand.

When he crashed Jungkook's live that evening, Jimin had every intention to make an impression. After how people disregarded his precious, scant hours of work reprieve, he believed he deserved the screen time. It was tempting to test the waters to say the least. Not just with Jungkook. He wasn't dumb, well aware of his effect when he tried to appeal to someone.

“I don't know why you go to those lengths. They like you already,” Yoongi interrupted him mid-explanation, referencing to their fans. “What's more to prove?”

Jimin wondered to himself why but decided against it. “That's not the point, hyung,” he offered, not wanting to divert from the case at hand. They could ramble on about his insecurities later.

After confiscating the speaker that agitated Namjoon down to coordi noona who just finished fixing damaged buttons of their Blood, Sweat and Tears stage costumes, he went back in Jungkook’s room to greet their fans. A hand comb through his blond hair, cute sounds, zoom the bare face closer to the camera when he knew he just applied mask so he'd look good.

More important than that though was to stare at someone far longer than what was necessary that he’d be conscious to repay the attention. So he did what he knew would work, lure Jungkook's eyes to him and whisper. Mumble because that required someone to pay better heed and read his lips.

“That's not right, I was good at playing games a year ago.”

Then Jungkook would nod absentmindedly and whip his head towards his direction as Taehyung sang Chandelier in the background. Jimin wouldn't say it was the perfect song for the moment but it was good to have a song. Cause Jimin was aware they were recorded. He could go back to this, a song would help with epiphany and drama.

“What do you think?” he asked Yoongi who was squinting at his phone. Doubtful but probably a lot more convinced than he was five minutes ago. “I can be convincing if I want to.” He extended an arm to retrieve his phone.

He fell forward when his hyung suddenly pulled back to keep the small device out of reach. “I don't know if you're being serious about this.”

Jimin titled his head. “I am,” he said. “I am serious. Jungkook really likes me.”

He wasn't unreasonable. The kid had a habit of staring when someone would talk. He observed these things, sometimes obsessively, because it helped him understand the maknae better. So he knew why Jungkook would do it. He found it difficult to focus and physically directing his attention to someone would help him catch what they were trying to say better. It wouldn't be a deal then if Jimin was talking.

But when it was Namjoon who was put on spot to answer an English interview, their leader who still strove to speak a foreign language to represent the group, Jimin quite expected for Jungkook to listen… ogle.

“The korean teacher asked me a question, ‘What are the hardships of being a leader?’”

It wasn’t the first time Jungkook was caught. There was one at a fansign, then at the backstage of a music show, also during that one gayo episode and probably instances he wasn’t aware or the others he couldn’t remember. If Jimin wasn’t so busy overthinking things, he would have found it funny how Jungkook would play it cool and avert his gaze elsewhere. 

“There are hardships when we take positions, specifically being a leader...”

Namjoon continued his answer in the background while Jimin thought to himself what actually goes through the maknae’s head when he would look at him. Was the need so compelling that he’d do it or was Jimin really just that. Beautiful?

“Ya, do you hear yourself?”

Jimin giggled, his head falling back to comfortably rest on the loveseat. It was funny to call himself beautiful. Even he wouldn’t be that shameless.

The point still stands though. Jungkook would stare at him, and he would call him beautiful.

“It has to mean something right?”

He wanted to confirm the motivations behind the not-so-subtle attention. However, he didn’t want to do a repeat of the last time when he confronted Jungkook about the song. It made the air between them strained and the youngest would agonize in his presence. Jimin thought he was being shy so he’d hold back.

But then what about his own curiosity?

“You’re curious, that’s it,” Yoongi said plainly. “What would you do with that information?”

Jimin pursed his lips as he thought about it. 

Good point. Where was he leading with all these? He didn’t think that far enough. He wasn’t even done with his final proof.

“What do you think, hyung? What should I do about it?”

...To be continued

[wehveechen]

A Red Lamb: Urokai One-Shot

A little One Shot with Urokai bc I love him k. also posted on ao3!

This must have been the quaintest little shithole he has seen in at least twohundred years. He'd managed to escape Zarga's endless nagging and the constant annoyance caused to him by the 10th and 12th Elders. They shouldn't even be allowed to talk to him at all, these miserable worms! He vaguely remembered the world map, and if he was not wrong, he was somewhere on an island called Ireland. No one in the world would go and look for him here. Good, all he wanted was some quiet.

 However, this place did not alleviate his boredom. Urokai wandered through empty streets, the few people he saw averted their gaze in a sense of discomfort  - good. He didn't want to talk to anyone anyway. After about half an hour, he reached the largest building in the small town, an old church that must have stood here for longer than most of the other buildings. The heavy door creaked when he pushed it open and he was met with a draft of cool air coming from the inside. Dimmed sunlight fell through the windows of stained glass, throwing colorful specks of light on the floor and the columns. Other than that, the building was disappointingly unornate. Quite unlike the much larger cathedrals he had seen in other places. Still, the quietness of this place was one he could appreciate. Idly, Urokai strolled towards the row of candles that must have been lit at some point. Some of them seemed fresh while others had burned down almost entirely by now.

"  “You look a little lost, if I may say so. Can I help you?" Not a quiet voice, but a calm one. Slowly, Urokai turned towards the human who'd addressed him. Dressed in black, early thirties, he'd wager, tousled dark hair. He did not seem too angered over the visitor. Still, Urokai huffed, feeling insulted by the mere fact that a mortal dared speak to him just like that, uninvited. Still, he didn't want to cause a scene, meaning to keep a low profile until Zarga and the rest decided they no longer felt the inescapable need to annoy him. "No. I'm just having a look around."

The main church was usually empty, apart from sundays and the rare elderly person looking for company and comfort in the presence of the young priest. A small comunity of hardly a thousand inhabitants in a rural area, an inornate church that seemed to get emptier each year. Thus, he was surprised to see someone here - someone young, and someone new. Though Thomas most certainly did not know everyone in town, he knew all those who attended church regularly, and none of them a one-eyed redhead. Maybe he moved here only recently. For the first couple of minutes, he had not bothered the man in case he had come here to pray or light a candle. He didn't - and so Thomas approached the stranger, hands folded in front of his torso.

"Oh. I see. We rarely see tourists around here. I am afraid there is not much to see here." "I noticed that. About as dead as it gets... You're a priest, right?" "Yes, I am." "What do you do all day, apart from preaching?" (Urokai realized he never talked to a human priest before. Why would he ? ) The priest seemed to be a bit taken aback by the question, but he still answered patiently. "Apart from preparing the masses, I am responsible for counseling at the nearby nursery home and the school, as well as the local youth club and neighborhood community." "So, talking to people all day." The man in front of him laughed, it sounded off in this little church. But somehow Urokai liked that sound. It felt so... light. Genuine. "Essentially. Of course, each priest performs different tasks. But I like people, so that's what I do: helping them." "Isn't God or something supposed to help them?" Urokai snorted. He was vaguely familiar with the notion of religion, after all. "God is the one who gives us strength to help ourselves." Once again, Urokai was tempted to snort. Right. Humans needed something like that too. A Lord. A noblesse. Someone to look up to. Instead of their kings, just as foul and flawed as the common rabble, they turned to God.

"... I still need to tend to the chapel's Garden, but don't hesitate to ask, if there is anything I can help you with." The priest was too friendly, Urokai did not like it, and it almost made him snarl. That smile was too genuine, unpleasant to see with his own eyes, sore of all the bitter faces and false smiles he was forced to see whenever he had any union business to take care of. Zarga never has been particulaly funny and Roctis must have forgotten how to smile altogether. Ignes, though not much younger than him, was too intense for his tastes. For fuck's sake, how low has he stooped, to seek company from a human? "I will just hang around," he finally replied through gritted teeth, and for a moment, he was certain the man must feel his tension (but ah, Urokai never has been good at hiding his feelings. He played with his heart on his sleeve). "You're welcome. I rarely have company... My name is Thomas." He offered one hand. Urokai glanced at it with furrowed brows and, once the Priest realized that the redhead had no intentions of accepting the handshake, he let his arm drop back to his side. "I'm Urokai."

He followed the priest out in the garden, slipping his hood off. A bunch of herbs and flowers he was not familiar with. The priest grabbed a pair of intensely yellow rubber gardening gloves and a green bucket with tools that were probably meant for gardening. Urokai realized he knew absolutely nothing about herbs and plants, he always left the garden of the clan's estate to the gardener. The man, Thomas, hummed a tune as he filled a green watering can with water from an old faucet. He wasn't silent, but quiet. This was one of the rare moments Urokai remembered that they did not mean the same thing. "So, are you from far away?", the priest asked, kneeling in the dirt to clip wilted flowers from a shrub. "I'm from New Zealand." One of the elders had told him to just always say that, if asked. "New Zealand? What a far way you come from! Probably on the way  to Cork? You should drop by at Kilkenny, it's maybe an hour away from here. Though I guess that won't impress someone from New Zealand. I heard it's an absolutely gorgeous place." Urokai shrugged with a hum. He never has been to New Zealand and didn't care to. "Why are you a priest? Must be a shitty job." Thomas halted and glanced up to him before returning his attention to the rose bush. "Not everyone is made for priesthood, and that's alright. There are many ways in which people do the Lord's work, after all. I want to help people. There's many ways to do that, too." "why bother helping people? As if they ever return anything you give them." " It's not about receiving. To give and to receive is barter... The love we receive from God, we give back to our neighbours, or brothers and sisters. Compassion is not a single kind deed, but a way of life." "And then you burn yourself like a candle, to keep others warm." "If I am to burn, then so be it. Whether in this life or the next, whatever we sow we will reap."

Urokai laughed bitterly. How naive! How foolish! As if this man knew nothing of life. "Oh, yes. You love, you give, you love, you give, and you get nothing back. What you sow, another reaps. And you are forgotten and left behind. That's the way it goes. You do everything for someone you admire and cherish and you get nothing in return. You are forgotten. That's all it leads to." Finally, the priest set down his gardening tools, shifting to look at him. There was a sadness in his green eyes. "I am sorry you have been hurt so much," he said, softly. His voice was gentle, so gentle, like the tender caress of a loving father. Urokai gulped, feeling taken aback by his own outburst of emotion and the calm he was met with. In this moment, the human reminded him of someone he had tried to erase from his memory. "Often, this world is not just... often, we despair, question, wonder whether there is a purpose and a reason. We ask ... how can there be a God who makes us suffer like that? How can God loves us and still let this world be like that? It's one of the hardest questions in the world. But we all have a cross to carry, such as Christ, and the Lord does not place a cross on our shoulders heaver than what we can carry - and if we keep our faith, if we can stay good people despite everything... through these hardships, we grow. And in this growth lies salvation." Urokai swallowed, embarrassed by his own outburst of emotion before this stupid human who started talking of God. "I should go." He felt uncomfortable being here. The priest gave a little nod. "God be with you... Be safe on your travels. I hope you will find peace there."

Something about that stuck him, even long after returning to his base. I hope you will find peace there... In that little garden, in the company of that humming priest, he'd felt peace for a few moments. And for the first time in centuries, Urokai found himself wishing he could turn back time. Undo the wrongs he'd inflicted on the one he loved the most, go back to visisting the Noblesse with his friends, go back to Lukedonia, go back to times that would never come back. Urokai found himself missing the happiness he once had.

[focusontheeasternlightning-blog]

Can Our Church Be Raptured?

In the morning, my son drove off and I went for a walk in the park. Before I walked for a while, I heard someone yelling behind me: “Old Wang.” “Yes.” I replied whilst looking back. 

They are Brother Sun and his wife, Sister Li. I said: “Hi, it’s a nice day for a walk.” They replied in unison: “Yes.” Sister Li said: “Old Wang, a moment ago I saw your son drive off. Where did he go?” I replied: “Ah, he and his wife will go traveling with their friends. I exhorted them not to travel because tomorrow is the Sunday worship. Now, the Lord’s coming is near, how can we not go to the church and observe the Lord’s Day? Our pastors have stressed repeatedly that when the Lord returns, He must come to the church and receive us. Only if we don’t leave the church will we not be abandoned by the Lord. If we don’t go to church on the Lord’s Day but the Lord comes to rapture us, what should we do? Then we’ll be abandoned by the Lord, won’t we? May the Lord preserve them to come back tomorrow and attend the Lord’s Day meeting on time.”

With that, we sat on the bench in the pavilion and continued chatting. Brother Sun said: “Hey, Old Wang, during meetings, our pastors said: ‘When the Lord comes again, He will certainly come to the church and receive us; as long as we don’t leave the church, we can be taken to the kingdom of heaven by the Lord.’ But I always feel anxiety in my heart. Let’s chat about it.”

Sister Li said bluntly: “Frankly speaking, in the beginning, the brothers and sisters in the church actively attended gatherings and brimmed with confidence; and I thought what the pastors said was right and believed that when the Lord returned, our congregation would be able to be raptured. But now, the love and faith of many brothers and sisters get colder and colder, and fewer and fewer people attend meetings. On the surface, some brothers and sisters come to attend meetings. But in fact, they come to sell and buy or they drift off and fall asleep instead of concentrating on listening to sermons. Can the Lord praise a church in this kind of condition? If we stay here, can we truly welcome the Lord’s return? It’s hard to say.”

I hesitated a bit and said: “Sister Li, I think what you said is reasonable. But the pastors and religious elders have stressed repeatedly that we must wait for the Lord’s return in the church. And they also preached: ‘The church is his body, the fullness of him that fills all in all’ (See Eph 1:22-23). The church is the Lord’s body, and is also the place where we go to worship God. If the Lord doesn’t come to the church and receive us, then where can He go?”

Sister Li continued saying: “I don’t see through this thing but Jehovah God says: ‘For my thoughts are not your thoughts, neither are your ways my ways, said the LORD. For as the heavens are higher than the earth, so are my ways higher than your ways, and my thoughts than your thoughts’ (Isa 55:8–9). We are only created beings, so we can’t fathom the Lord’s will at all. Is the Lord’s coming truly as simple as we think? Will He directly come to our church and take us to the kingdom of heaven? I think it’s quite unlikely. About this question where the Lord will appear, we can’t reach a verdict but must pray a lot and seek His will.”

Brother Sun pondered and said: “About this question where the Lord will appear when He returns, we can’t truly see through it. But through seriously searching the scriptures recently, I have known that, in the Age of Law, God worked in the temple, which was full of Jehovah’s glory. Anyone couldn’t enter it without permission, including the King of Israel. The King Uzziah was cursed and then died of leprosy because he turned a deaf ear to the priests’ dissuasion and crossed over into the temple. Even the priests must sanctify themselves for three months before entering the temple. However, when the Lord Jesuscame to work, what had the temple become?”

I said: “A den of thieves.”

Brother Sun said: “Yes. We know that, in the latter days of the Age of Law, the Jewish leaders didn’t keep God’s word. They abided by men’s traditions but rejected God’s commandments and departed completely from the way of God. The temple was controlled by them and became a den of thieves where oxen, sheep and doves were sold. Because God is the holy One and He does not reside in a filthy temple, when the Lord Jesus came to work, He didn’t enter the temple but directly preached and worked in the towns and villages outside of it. Let’s look at our church now: The pastors and religious elders have not God in their hearts, have no hearts that fear God and are pursuing status and power. Those brothers and sisters who have power and authority and often donate are welcomed by them with smiling faces, while those who don’t have status are ignored by them. They profess to love the Lord, love their neighbors as themselves and love each other, but in essence, they are all engaged with their own affairs, and they lay their own turfs and lord it over a district for the sake of protecting their status and livelihood. They are always preaching about some knowledge of the Bible and theological theories to show off, hold themselves aloft and testify to themselves, but don’t exalt or testify the Lord at all; the brothers and sisters can’t receive any sustenance or enjoy any work of the Holy Spirit. I feel that our church is just the same as the temple in the latter days of the Age of Law. God is holy; He appears to the holy land, and hides Himself from the impure land. When the Lord Jesus returns, how can He come to such a church to receive us? Would both of you say so?”

I nodded and felt what Brother Sun had said accorded with the facts and that it could hold water. I thought: Could it be that, when the Lord returns, He won’t come to the church to receive us? Then what should we do? I asked in a hurry: “If the Lord doesn’t come to the church to receive us, how can we welcome Him?”

Brother Sun pondered and said: “On the subject of welcoming the Lord, I remember in the Bible the Lord says: ‘And at midnight there was a cry made, Behold, the bridegroom comes; go you out to meet him’ (Mat 25:6). Therefore, we should, like the clever virgin, focus on hearing God’s voice and actively look for the church with the work of the Holy Spirit. Because wherever the Lord appears, there must be the work of the Holy Spirit. Only in this way can we welcome the Lord’s return and attend the wedding supper of the Lamb. Isn’t that right?”

Sister Li and I pondered and nodded. I continued asking Brother Sun: “Now is the late period of the last days. The days of the Lord are right before us. Then how should we look for the church with the work of the Holy Spirit?”

Brother Sun replied: “I remember the Book of Revelation prophesied ‘And to the angel of the church in Philadelphia write; These things said he that is holy, he that is true, he that has the key of David, he that opens, and no man shuts; and shuts, and no man opens; … Him that overcomes will I make a pillar in the temple of my God, and he shall go no more out: and I will write on him the name of my God, and the name of the city of my God, which is new Jerusalem, which comes down out of heaven from my God: and I will write on him my new name. He that has an ear, let him hear what the Spirit says to the churches’ (Rev 3:7, 12, 13). From these prophecies, we can see that the Philadelphia Church is the one of the overcomers and a raptured one. Only such a church can gain the work of the Holy Spirit. What’s more, we should focus on looking for the utterances of the Holy Spirit and seek which church is testifying the words of God. It is likely that such a church will be captured by the Lord when He returns.”

I constantly nodded and said: “Thank the Lord! Such fellowship is enlightening.”

At this time, Sister Li said: “Hey, hearing your fellowship, I think of The Church of Almighty God that has been most seriously condemned and persecuted by the CCP over these years among all house churches. Although the CCP has been overwhelmingly hunting the believers in Almighty God, not only have they not been defeated but they have also been spreading the gospel with unbounded confidence and bearing many witnesses of the overcomers. Now, Almighty God’s kingdom gospel has been spread to all nations and places by The Church of Almighty God and the word expressed by Almighty God has also been uploaded onto big websites overseas, for people who truly believe in God from all nations and all lands to seek and investigate. The Scriptures say, What comes from God shall increase, what comes from man shall decrease. You say, can The Church of Almighty God be where the Lord Jesus comes back to work?”

Brother Sun and I looked at each other and said in unison: “Thank the Lord! It can probably be that.”

[love-god-forever]

Have You Found the Church That Will Be Raptured?

By Xiao Ya

In the morning, my son drove off and I went for a walk in the park. Before I walked for a while, I heard someone yelling behind me: “Old Wang.” “Yes.” I replied whilst looking back. They are Brother Sun and his wife, Sister Li. I said: “Hi, it’s a nice day for a walk.” They replied in unison: “Yes.” Sister Li said: “Old Wang, a moment ago I saw your son drive off. Where did he go?” I replied: “Ah, he and his wife will go traveling with their friends. I exhorted them not to travel because tomorrow is the Sunday worship. Now, the Lord’s coming is near, how can we not go to the church and observe the Lord’s Day? Our pastors have stressed repeatedly that when the Lord returns, He must come to the church and receive us. Only if we don’t leave the church will we not be abandoned by the Lord. If we don’t go to church on the Lord’s Day but the Lord comes to rapture us, what should we do? Then we’ll be abandoned by the Lord, won’t we? May the Lord preserve them to come back tomorrow and attend the Lord’s Day meeting on time.”

With that, we sat on the bench in the pavilion and continued chatting. Brother Sun said: “Hey, Old Wang, during meetings, our pastors said: ‘When the Lord comes again, He will certainly come to the church and receive us; as long as we don’t leave the church, we can be taken to the kingdom of heaven by the Lord.’ But I always feel anxiety in my heart. Let’s chat about it.”

Sister Li said bluntly: “Frankly speaking, in the beginning, the brothers and sisters in the church actively attended gatherings and brimmed with confidence; and I thought what the pastors said was right and believed that when the Lord returned, our congregation would be able to be raptured. But now, the love and faith of many brothers and sisters get colder and colder, and fewer and fewer people attend meetings. On the surface, some brothers and sisters come to attend meetings. But in fact, they come to sell and buy or they drift off and fall asleep instead of concentrating on listening to sermons. Can the Lord praise a church in this kind of condition? If we stay here, can we truly welcome the Lord’s return? It’s hard to say.”

I hesitated a bit and said: “Sister Li, I think what you said is reasonable. But the pastors and religious elders have stressed repeatedly that we must wait for the Lord’s return in the church. And they also preached: ‘The church is his body, the fullness of him that fills all in all’ (See Eph 1:22-23). The church is the Lord’s body, and is also the place where we go to worship God. If the Lord doesn’t come to the church and receive us, then where can He go?”

Sister Li continued saying: “I don’t see through this thing but Jehovah God says: ‘For my thoughts are not your thoughts, neither are your ways my ways, said the LORD. For as the heavens are higher than the earth, so are my ways higher than your ways, and my thoughts than your thoughts’ (Isa 55:8–9). We are only created beings, so we can’t fathom the Lord’s will at all. Is the Lord’s coming truly as simple as we think? Will He directly come to our church and take us to the kingdom of heaven? I think it’s quite unlikely. About this question where the Lord will appear, we can’t reach a verdict but must pray a lot and seek His will.”

Brother Sun pondered and said: “About this question where the Lord will appear when He returns, we can’t truly see through it. But through seriously searching the scriptures recently, I have known that, in the Age of Law, God worked in the temple, which was full of Jehovah’s glory. Anyone couldn’t enter it without permission, including the King of Israel. The King Uzziah was cursed and then died of leprosy because he turned a deaf ear to the priests’ dissuasion and crossed over into the temple. Even the priests must sanctify themselves for three months before entering the temple. However, when the Lord Jesus came to work, what had the temple become?”

I said: “A den of thieves.”

Brother Sun said: “Yes. We know that, in the latter days of the Age of Law, the Jewish leaders didn’t keep God’s word. They abided by men’s traditions but rejected God’s commandments and departed completely from the way of God. The temple was controlled by them and became a den of thieves where oxen, sheep and doves were sold. Because God is the holy One and He does not reside in a filthy temple, when the Lord Jesus came to work, He didn’t enter the temple but directly preached and worked in the towns and villages outside of it. Let’s look at our church now: The pastors and religious elders have not God in their hearts, have no hearts that fear God and are pursuing status and power. Those brothers and sisters who have power and authority and often donate are welcomed by them with smiling faces, while those who don’t have status are ignored by them. They profess to love the Lord, love their neighbors as themselves and love each other, but in essence, they are all engaged with their own affairs, and they lay their own turfs and lord it over a district for the sake of protecting their status and livelihood. They are always preaching about some knowledge of the Bible and theological theories to show off, hold themselves aloft and testify to themselves, but don’t exalt or testify the Lord at all; the brothers and sisters can’t receive any sustenance or enjoy any work of the Holy Spirit. I feel that our church is just the same as the temple in the latter days of the Age of Law. God is holy; He appears to the holy land, and hides Himself from the impure land. When the Lord Jesus returns, how can He come to such a church to receive us? Would both of you say so?”

I nodded and felt what Brother Sun had said accorded with the facts and that it could hold water. I thought: Could it be that, when the Lord returns, He won’t come to the church to receive us? Then what should we do? I asked in a hurry: “If the Lord doesn’t come to the church to receive us, how can we welcome Him?”

Brother Sun pondered and said: “On the subject of welcoming the Lord, I remember in the Bible the Lord says: ‘And at midnight there was a cry made, Behold, the bridegroom comes; go you out to meet him’ (Mat 25:6). Therefore, we should, like the clever virgin, focus on hearing God’s voice and actively look for the church with the work of the Holy Spirit. Because wherever the Lord appears, there must be the work of the Holy Spirit. Only in this way can we welcome the Lord’s return and attend the wedding supper of the Lamb. Isn’t that right?”

Sister Li and I pondered and nodded. I continued asking Brother Sun: “Now is the late period of the last days. The days of the Lord are right before us. Then how should we look for the church with the work of the Holy Spirit?”

Brother Sun replied: “I remember the Book of Revelation prophesied ‘And to the angel of the church in Philadelphia write; These things said he that is holy, he that is true, he that has the key of David, he that opens, and no man shuts; and shuts, and no man opens; … Him that overcomes will I make a pillar in the temple of my God, and he shall go no more out: and I will write on him the name of my God, and the name of the city of my God, which is new Jerusalem, which comes down out of heaven from my God: and I will write on him my new name. He that has an ear, let him hear what the Spirit says to the churches’ (Rev 3:7, 12, 13). From these prophecies, we can see that the Philadelphia Church is the one of the overcomers and a raptured one. Only such a church can gain the work of the Holy Spirit. What’s more, we should focus on looking for the utterances of the Holy Spirit and seek which church is testifying the words of God. It is likely that such a church will be captured by the Lord when He returns.”

I constantly nodded and said: “Thank the Lord! Such fellowship is enlightening.”

At this time, Sister Li said: “Hey, hearing your fellowship, I think of The Church of Almighty God that has been most seriously condemned and persecuted by the CCP over these years among all house churches. Although the CCP has been overwhelmingly hunting the believers in Almighty God, not only have they not been defeated but they have also been spreading the gospel with unbounded confidence and bearing many witnesses of the overcomers. Now, Almighty God’s kingdom gospel has been spread to all nations and places by The Church of Almighty God and the word expressed by Almighty God has also been uploaded onto big websites overseas, for people who truly believe in God from all nations and all lands to seek and investigate. The Scriptures say, What comes from God shall increase, what comes from man shall decrease. You say, can The Church of Almighty God be where the Lord Jesus comes back to work?”

Brother Sun and I looked at each other and said in unison: “Thank the Lord! It can probably be that.”

[readbookywooks]

The Disc sun was close to the horizon by the time Binky cantered wearily through the skies over Sto Lat, and Mort looked down and saw the borderland of reality. It curved away below him, a crescent of faint silver mist. He didn't know what it was, but he had a nasty foreboding that it had something to do with him. He reined in the horse and allowed him to trot gently towards the ground, touching down a few yards behind the wall of iridescent air. It was moving at something less than walking pace, hissing gently as it drifted ghost-like across the stark damp cabbage fields and frozen drainage ditches. It was a cold night, the type of night when frost and fog fight for domination and every sound is muffled. Binky's breath made fountains of cloud in the still air. He whinnied gently, almost apologetically, and pawed at the ground. Mort slid out of the saddle and crept up to the interface. It crackled softly. Weird shapes coruscated across it, flowing and shifting and disappearing. After some searching he found a stick and poked it cautiously into the wall. It made strange ripples that wobbled slowly out of sight. Mort looked up as a shape drifted overhead. It was a black owl, patrollng the ditches for anything small and squeaky. It hit the wall with a splash of sparkling mist, leaving an owl-shaped ripple that grew and spread until it joined the boiling kaleidoscope. Then it vanished. Mort could see through the transparent interface, and certainly no owl reappeared on the other side. Just as he was puzzling over this there was another soundless splash a few feet away and the bird burst into view again, totally unconcerned, and skimmed away across the fields. Mort pulled himself together, and stepped through the barrier which was no barrier at all. It tingled. A moment later Binky burst through after him, eyes rolling in desperation and tendrils of interface catching on his hooves. He reared up, shaking his mane like a dog to remove clinging fibres of mist, and looked at Mort beseechingly. Mort caught his bridle, patted him on the nose, and fumbled in his pocket for a rather grubby sugar lump. He was aware that he was in the presence of something important, but he wasn't yet quite sure what it was. There was a road running between an avenue of damp and gloomy willow trees. Mort remounted and steered Binky across the field into the dripping darkness under the branches. In the distance he could see the lights of Sto Helit, which really wasn't much more than a small town, and a faint glow on the edge of sight must be Sto Lat. He looked at it longingly. The barrier worried him. He could see it creeping across the field behind the trees. Mort was on the point of urging Binky back into the air when he saw the light immediately ahead of him, warm and beckoning. It was spilling from the windows of a large building set back from the road. It was probably a cheerful sort of light in any case, but in these surroundings and compared with Mort's mood it was positively ecstatic. As he rode nearer he saw shadows moving against it, and made out a few snatches of song. It was an inn, and inside there were people having a good time, or what passed for a good time if you were a peasant who spent most of your time closely concerned with cabbages. Compared to brassicas, practically anything is fun. There were human beings in there, doing uncomplicated human things like getting drunk and forgetting the words of songs. Mort had never really felt homesick, possibly because his mind had been too occupied with other things. But he felt it now for the first time – a sort of longing, not for a place, but for a state of mind, for being just an ordinary human being with straightforward things to worry about, like money and sickness and other people. . . . 'I shall have a drink,' he thought, 'and perhaps I shall feel better.' There was an open-fronted stable at one side of the main building, and he led Binky into the warm, horse-smelling darkness that already accommodated three other horses. As Mort unfastened the nosebag he wondered if Death's horse felt the same way about other horses which had rather less supernatural lifestyles. He certainly looked impressive compared to the others, which regarded him watchfully. Binky was a real horse – the blisters of the shovel handle on Mort's hands were a testimony to that – and compared to the others he looked more real than ever. More solid. More horsey. Slightly larger than life. In fact, Mort was on the verge of making an important deduction, and it is unfortunate that he was distracted, as he walked across the yard to the inn's low door, by the sight of the inn sign. Its artist hadn't been particularly gifted, but there was no mistaking the line of Keli's jaw or her mass of fiery hair in the portrait of The Quene's Hed. He sighed, and pushed open the door. As one man, the assembled company stopped talking and stared at him with the honest rural stare that suggests that for two pins they'll hit you around the head with a shovel and bury your body under a compost heap at full moon. It might be worth taking another look at Mort, because he's changed a lot in the last few chapters. For example, while he still has plenty of knees and elbows about his person, they seem to have migrated to their normal places and he no longer moves as though his joints were loosely fastened together with elastic bands. He used to look as if he knew nothing at all; now he looks as though he knows too much. Something about his eyes suggests that he has seen things that ordinary people never see, or at least never see more than once. Something about all the rest of him suggests to the watchers that causing an inconvenience for this boy might just be as wise as kicking a wasp nest. In short, Mort no longer looks like something the cat brought in and then brought up. The landlord relaxed his grip on the stout blackthorn peacemaker he kept under the bar and composed his features into something resembling a cheerful welcoming grin, although not very much. 'Evening, your lordship,' he said. 'What's your pleasure this cold and frosty night?' 'What?' said Mort, blinking in the light. 'What he means is, what d'you want to drink?' said a small ferret-faced man sitting by the fire, who was giving Mort the kind of look a butcher gives a field full of lambs. 'Um. I don't know,' said Mort. 'Do you sell stardrip?' 'Never heard of it, lordship.' Mort looked around at the faces watching him, illuminated by the firelight. They were the sort of people generally called the salt of the earth. In other words, they were hard, square and bad for your health, but Mort was too preoccupied to notice. 'What do people like to drink here, then?' The landlord looked sideways at his customers, a clever trick given that they were directly in front of him. 'Why, lordship, we drink scumble, for preference.' 'Scumble?' said Mort, failing to notice the muffled sniggers. 'Aye, lordship. Made from apples. Well, mainly apples.' This seemed healthy enough to Mort. 'Oh, right,' he said. 'A pint of scumble, then.' He reached into his pocket and withdrew the bag of gold that Death had given him. It was still quite full. In the sudden hush of the inn the faint clink of the coins sounded like the legendary Brass Gongs of Leshp, which can be heard far out to sea on stormy nights as the currents stir them in their drowned towers three hundred fathoms below. 'And please serve these gentlemen with whatever they want,' he added. He was so overwhelmed by the chorus of thanks that he didn't take much notice of the fact that his new friends were served their drink in tiny, thimble-sized glasses, while his alone turned up in a large wooden mug. A lot of stories are told about scumble, and how it is made out on the damp marshes according to ancient recipes handed down rather unsteadily from father to son. It's not true about the rats, or the snake heads, or the lead shot. The one about the dead sheep is a complete fabrication. We can lay to rest all the variations of the one about the trouser button. But the one about not letting it come into contact with metal is absolutely true, because when the landlord flagrantly shortchanged Mort and plonked the small heap of copper in a puddle of the stuff it immediately began to froth. Mort sniffed his drink, and then took a sip. It tasted something like apples, something like autumn mornings, and quite a lot like the bottom of a logpile. Not wishing to appear disrespectful, however, he took a swig. The crowd watched him, counting under its breath. Mort felt something was being demanded of him. 'Nice,' he said, 'very refreshing.' He took another sip. 'Bit of an acquired taste,' he added, 'but well worth the effort, I'm sure.' There were one or two mutters of discontent from the back of the crowd. 'He's been watering the scumble, that's what 'tis.' 'Nay, thou knowst what happens if you lets a drop of water touch scumble.' The landlord tried to ignore this. 'You like it?' he said to Mort, in pretty much the same tone of voice people used when they said to St George, 'You killed a what?' 'It's quite tangy,' said Mort. 'And sort of nutty.' 'Excuse me,' said the landlord, and gently took the mug out of Mort's hand. He sniffed at it, then wiped his eyes. 'Uuunnyag,' he said. 'It's the right stuff all right.' He looked at the boy with something verging on admiration. It wasn't that he'd drunk a third of a pint of scumble in itself, it was that he was still vertical and apparently alive. He handed the pot back again: it was as if Mort was being given a trophy after some incredible contest. When the boy took another mouthful several of the watchers winced. The landlord wondered what Mort's teeth were made of, and decided it must be the same stuff as his stomach. 'You're not a wizard by any chance?' he enquired, just in case. 'Sorry, no. Should I be?' Didn't think so, thought the landlord, he doesn't walk like a wizard and anyway he isn't smoking anything. He looked at the scumble pot again. There was something wrong about this. There was something wrong about the boy. He didn't look right. He looked — — more solid than he should do. That was ridiculous, of course. The bar was solid, the floor was solid, the customers were as solid as you could wish for. Yet Mort, standing there looking rather embarrassed and casually sipping a liquid you could clean spoons with, seemed to emit a particularly potent sort of solidness, an extra dimension of realness. His hair was more hairy, his clothes more clothy, his boots the epitome of bootness. It made your head ache just to look at him. However, Mort then demonstrated that he was human after all. The mug dropped from his stricken fingers and clattered on the flagstones, where the dregs of scumble started to eat its way through them. He pointed at the far wall, his mouth opening and shutting wordlessly. The regulars turned back to their conversations and games of shovel-up, reassured that things were as they should be; Mort was acting perfectly normally now. The landlord, relieved that the brew had been vindicated, reached across the bar top and patted him companionably on the shoulder. 'It's all right,' he said. 'It often takes people like this, you'll just have a headache for a few weeks, don't worry about it, a drop of scumble'll see you all right again.' It is a fact that the best remedy for a scumble hangover is a hair of the dog, although it should more accurately be called a tooth of the shark or possibly a tread of the bulldozer. But Mort merely went on pointing and said, in a trembling voice, 'Can't you see it? It's coming through the wall! It's coming right through the wall!' 'A lot of things come through the wall after your first drink of scumble. Green hairy things, usually.'